


Preservation

by lirulin



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Foursome, Foursome - F/F/M/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Not Trespasser DLC Compliant, Polyamorous relationship, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3490838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirulin/pseuds/lirulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She'd always known the anchor would take her life. If there was one thing she could do that was truly good, that would better the world, she would take it with her when she died. Once her work was done, if Corypheus didn't manage to slay her, she'd do it herself. Unfortunately, once her companions discover this plan, they refuse to allow it and desperately seek solutions to save her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Herald of Andraste

**Author's Note:**

> Done for a fill on the Kinkmeme, please see the notes at the end for a more extensive summary of the prompt. I adore tragic heroes, oblivious romances, and polyamory, so there was no hope of me ever resisting this prompt. The idea and it has taken a firm hold of me, hopefully my fingers can keep up.

The Herald of Andraste. 

The title stuck to her from the very moment the people of Haven first whispered it. It traveled with the speed of rumor, at a hushed whisper, and preceded her wherever she went. At the time, it had felt apropos, the burning that slowly devoured her, that crept through her bones, was certainly the stuff of Andrastian belief. It marked her, that name, and drove her to do terrible things. She lied, almost constantly, killed, and played at judging the souls and minds of the Maker's children. That name consumed her faith, it stripped it greedily until all that remained were fond memories of others, of their belief.

Their faces, the holes they'd left in her heart when they'd been torn away, they haunted her. They were a constant reminder, unfailing and true, of what she had to do. She was not pious enough, she had never been, and she had never intended to change. She wasn't the Herald of Andraste, she wasn't a Hero, a Savior, she was a noble from a land of farmers, buried in the Freemarches, and exiled from what remained of her kin. Divine providence or blind chance had fused the anchor into her hand--she wasn't important enough, good enough, evil enough, for any sort of irony to linger in that event. She was plain, unremarkable, one of so very many...and, like them all, she was scared. She was terrified, every day, every moment. 

The anchor was aptly named, it dragged her down, an immeasurable weight, caught on the Fade, and it would one day claim her life. Her every dream was a walk through the Black City, through the maelstrom at the very heart of the Fade, and her waking hours mirrored the nightmare. The pain was unending, though it ebbed to and fro like the tide, and with each day it wore a little more of her away with it. 

But that, perhaps, was a blessing.

The less she felt of herself, the more she could focus on what she had to be. For as small and unremarkable as she was, as common and plain, the world was filled with things of such beauty, of such _wonder_ , and they were worth thousands of her. There were people who were truly remarkable that walked beneath the sky, people who deserved the titles she'd stumbled into, people who enriched the world simply by being in it. She owed it to them, to all those who were better than her, to the world itself, to preserve as much of it as she could. To save as much of it as she could.

She couldn't save the world as a person, not as a Trevelyan and certainly not as Evelyn, but she might if she were the Herald of Andraste. If she were an instrument of Divine Will, an object to provide hope, comfort, inspiration, she might save enough of the world. She might save enough that someone else, someone more remarkable, might be able to heal all the hurts that were left behind. Unfortunately, the anchor was too terrible to be real, the power it granted was too much, too remarkable, and no matter how she fought to preserve, all it did was consume. It scarred the sky, drove men to madness, to desperation, and gradually fanned the flames that would burn the world to ash. Because of this thing, this key, so much beauty had been destroyed, so much was lost, and every day it mounted. 

This power cost too much, destroyed too much and left the world darker, diminished in its wake. 

Long before they'd called her Inquisitor, before they'd even called her Herald, before she'd even known what to call the shard of agony in her hand, she'd known the anchor would take her life. As time passed, as she tried to stay the destruction that she'd accidentally set in motion, as she tried to prevent the encroaching darkness and desolation, she came to a decision. If she could do only one thing, one thing that could truly improve the world, she would take this mark with her when she fell. It would not be used, by anyone or anything, after her time. It was a gift she could give to the world, a deed that was hers alone, but there was work to do before she could destroy it, work that required her, required the anchor. 

It was her duty to wield the mark, until this was done, and she did it. She was terrified, to her very core, of failure, of the harm she could do, of the choices she had to make, but she never faltered. She was steady, a rock in a storm, and she tried to be the hero, the savior that they wanted, that they needed. She stood tall, listened to them sing hymns about the coming dawn, and buried the splintering, searing nightmare that wound up her arm. She saw the faces of her family, her friends, among the faithful and she wanted to weep, but she needed to be a hero. It was unfortunate that heroes don't weep. 

Symbols don't grieve.

She carried on, always strong, always striving to save what joy and brightness she could, however small, and the Inquisition grew. Remarkable people flocked to her banners; the brave, the courageous, the brilliant, the beautiful, all of them followed her without hesitation and she wanted to scream. They cared for her, these great people, and told her that she inspired them. She helped them, tried to better their lives, assist them however she could, but she would inevitably disappoint them, hurt them, and there was already far too much hurt in the world, far too much disappointment. They presented themselves, shining beacons of potential, of wonder, and waited for the anchor to tarnish them, to consume them as it had her, never understanding that they stood in the flame, that it was just a matter of time.

She chose the strongest of them, time and again, as her companions. 

Cassandra was what she should have been; she was the picture of the Herald of Andraste, an icon to uphold for all the ages. She was just, precise, and bowed to the truth, she would understand the need for Evelyn's death, would accept it and move on. Varric saw her as a story, saw the character that she mimed at and recognized it, recognized her function, her worth. Her death would simply be the conclusion, nothing more, and his tale would have an ending as grand as it deserved. Solas saw her as a curiosity, a tool by which to accomplish a task, the means to an end. He wasn't wrong, and when she was discarded, he would be the least affected.

They had seen her at her weakest, when she was merely Evelyn, when she still let the pain bring her to her knees. When she finally fell, her death wouldn't diminish their lives. They would stand long after her, unbent, unbowed, whole in the wake of the anchor; she trusted them with the remains of the world. 

...But Evelyn was not as strong as they were. She was scared, and though she never wanted to hurt them, to hurt anyone, all too often she found herself drawing on their strength. When they were friendly, it eased her pain. When they were kind, it stayed her fear. When they told her about themselves, about their lives, about their friends, their loves, she almost felt worthy, like this kinship weren't a farce, a cruel error of fate. They called her friend and she was weak, she hadn't the heart to push them away, and so she knew she would hurt them, in the end. She was selfish and it shamed her, but she couldn't give them up.

They were all she had.

 

______

 

"Do we know how many rifts are left?" It was a conversation best had over a war table, but the Inquisitor paid it no mind. She carried herself with more ease around a campfire, with a tin bowl of thin stew and a log to sit at, than she'd ever managed within Skyhold. She settled in front of the fire and looked, over the top of her bowl, at Cassandra. The warrior let out a sharp, pleasant laugh and eyed the shorter woman.

"In total, or in the whole of Ferelden?" Cassandra asked, and it was clearly meant to be rhetorical. 

"Oh, I think we can cut that down to the local area, can't we Seeker?" The stew was not to Varric's liking, but the meat itself was alright. Both the Inquisitor and Cassandra watched him as he carefully picked out a few chunks of meat from the pot.

"Use the ladle, Varric," Cassandra reprimanded but made no move to actually stop him. The frown she leveled at him had no bite and, when she turned back to the Inquisitor, it faded to a look of easy humor. "Leliana's scouts report two more on the Coast, and I believe there are reports of one in the Fallow Mire and one in the woods to the south."

"Unfortunately, it is hard to say how many rifts remain, given the nature of Corypheus's machinations," Solas added, his bowl was already empty and a wooden spoon rested against the side of it. He held the dish loosely in his hands, but didn't seem eager to rise and clean it. "My peoples' artifacts have done much to strengthen the veil, but, truly, until Corypheus is defeated it is difficult to take stock of all the damage done."

The Inquisitor paid close attention to the conversation, to each answer provided, and her expression gradually tensed. When she swallowed her mouthful of broth and lowered her bowl, she wore a pinched look of contemplation. Her frown pressed flat and, after a few moments of silence, evaporated to something more neutral. She inclined her head to Cassandra first and then Solas.

"Thank you, both of you," she said, quickly and sincerely, "It's good to know these things, even if it's not exactly as I'd have liked it."

"Hey, c'mon, Sunshine..." Varric leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees, and pointed at the Inquisitor with his makeshift fork. "Can't save the world overnight, might as well revel a little bit. If anybody deserves a pat on the back for a job well done, it's you."

"A pat on the back, Varric?" Cassandra leveled an unimpressed stare at him. "That is a very conservative reward considering your tendency for...excess. Do you really think her efforts deserve so little accolade?"

"Woah, didn't say that," Varric replied quickly and held both his hands up. "But you know the Inquisitor, not really the showy type. I'm just tailoring to my audience."

"Hm," Cassandra hummed and crossed her arms over her breastplate. When she looked back at Evelyn, her head was cocked to the side, just slightly, as though the angle would permit her to see more. "Varric is not incorrect, I suppose," she ceded and ignored Varric as he demanded to get that in writing. "I can understand, neither of us are given to extravagance, but you should enjoy your victories. A bit of revelry will not destroy the world."

"I'd be happy if she'd just take a high five and maybe a pint of decent beer."

"The Inquisitor is merely being prudent," Solas interjected, his tone warm, if slightly defensive. "If nothing else, it is an attitude befitting her position."

"Please, this is more than enough talk about me," Evelyn protested, a mild smile on her face. If anyone noticed that she ate a little faster, that her cheeks were slightly redder in the firelight, they didn't comment. "Can we turn the topic elsewhere?"

"That might be tricky, but it's worth a shot." Varric lanced a piece of meat shot a sweet look at Cassandra. "So, whose tent are you sleeping in tonight, Seeker?"

His flirting, obvious and familiar, got a rise out of Cassandra, as it always did. It was more genial now, but they'd all grown close over long months. There was no lack of fondness among them, and even Cassandra's disgusted huff lacked any real anger. Varric laughed as he continued eating and Cassandra shook her head. The whole exchange brought a shy smile to Evelyn's face, but the expression was fragile, it only ever lasted until it was noticed and, tonight, it was Cassandra that spotted it. The smile that spawned on the Seeker's face, small and subdued, was a reflection of it, and Evelyn's face fell to polite neutrality again.

"Not yours," Cassandra announced in no uncertain terms and motioned to the Inquisitor. "Tonight I will share with the Inquisitor. You two may take the other."

"Well, that sounds like the final decision," Evelyn said as she finished her soup and rose. The others remained seated, but watched her, as they usually did. She clamped the heavy lid atop the pot of stew, saved what was left for the morning, and extended a hand to take Solas's bowl. Before he could give it, Varric shot her a look that was very nearly annoyed. Her expression fell and turned confused, but he didn't relent.

"I tell you to relish your victories and you hear _'volunteer to do the dishes'_? How boring was Ostwick?" Varric chided. "Leave it, Chuckles and I will flip a coin."

"It appears I have been volunteered for the cause," Solas remarked, bemused, and took the Inquisitor's dish from her as she stood before him. "Rest well."

"Thank you, Varric," Cassandra added, a note of approval in her voice, and Evelyn watched the dwarf duck his head under the pretense of eating. Silence, comfortable and easy, settled around the campfire and the Inquisitor excused herself. 

The Hinterlands were not, by any stretch of the imagination, the most harrowing of Ferelden's lands. The days were often bright and warm, the nights were cool but never bitterly cold, and when Evelyn lingered alone, just outside of her tent, she could imagine that she was just a person again, standing in the wilderness. The quiet of the evening let her savor that, for a few moments, but the conversation around the fire picked up again, soft and friendly, and dispelled the illusion. She ducked into her tent, carefully stripped off her boots, her armor, and tried to settle into sleep. When Cassandra joined her, Evelyn drew herself against the Seeker's side, and rested her head on her breast. Cassandra, in her quiet grace and caring, wrapped an arm around her and did not draw away, despite how stifling the warmth between them became.

When she dreamed, with the Seeker's heart beneath her ear, the streets of the Black City were less terrible, the silence less deafening and cruel. When she woke, it was with a rare stillness, without terror clawing up her back. Her fingers were laced with Cassandra's, her head tucked beneath the warrior's chin, and there was a moment when the burning of the anchor was bearable, something that she could, perhaps, imagine as heartache instead of what it was. Evelyn smiled sadly against the rise of the Seeker's collarbone and was granted the press of lips against the crown of her head.

She always rose early, out of necessity and fear, in equal measure, and her companions mistook it for a curious habit. Cassandra rose just before the dawn, when the chill and darkness had left the world. Often the Seeker tried to wake alongside her, in an effort to be polite, to be friendly, but there was no reason for her to wake while it was dark and Evelyn encouraged her to slumber even as she drew herself away, dressed, and left the tent. She found Solas waiting, by the embers of the fire, and couldn't mask her surprise. He relished his slumber, the night was when he walked the wonders forgotten by the world, and nobody begrudged his taking first watch so that he could make the most of it. To see him awake, now, was startling.

"It is a bit preemptive, I suppose, but good morning." Solas's greeting was soft, hushed to avoid disturbing those asleep, and his hand waved across the embers as he coaxed a low, golden flame from them. The predawn cold was numbing, Evelyn enjoyed it even as she shivered, and though she moved to the fire side, she sat well away from the warmth it threw off. Solas raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.

"Good morning, Solas," Evelyn responded in kind, as was expected, and stared at him, confusion blatant on her face. He smiled and, before she could ask, stretched toward her and tucked a fallen lock of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks burned as he did. She'd not fixed her hair after sleeping against Cassandra. Suddenly, she was glad they were alone. "Thank you. Sorry, I forgot to fix it," the excuse was lame, if honest, and she glanced away from him as she drew her braid over her shoulder. It was crushed and wild, hair askew and jutting out at odd angles. Maker, she looked like a frayed bit of rope.

"It is hardly something worthy of an apology," Solas said, kindly, and Evelyn heard the gentle sound of his robes rustle as he moved alongside her. She'd untied the leather lacing that held her braid and, without a word, Solas's fingers carefully set about untangling the mess that she'd allowed her hair to become. She looked up at him but found his grey eyes casually fixed on the work of his hands. "I admit, similar complications did play a part in determining my current hairstyle...or, should I say, notable lack thereof."

He caught her as she glanced at his head, amused smile fighting the forcibly calm set of her lips. Evelyn folded her hands in her lap, somewhat awkwardly, and tried not to stare as he casually undid the knots that tangled her braid. Solas exuded serenity, being near him was calming and, between his closeness and the chill, Evelyn found enough peace to be distracted. The comment that stumbled out of her was fueled by her own blind curiosity, nothing more.

"I can't imagine how you would look with hair," she said, before she could catch herself, and Solas smiled as though he'd won some victory. His fingers lingered by her ear and a gentle push of his hand on her shoulder had her turning her back to him, so he could unwind the braiding at her scalp.

"When I was a younger man, I used to take great pride in my hair," Solas assured her, and her eyes closed as his fingers carefully slid back along her scalp and combed her hair into a presentable state. "No images remain of me, at least none that I know of, but I had hair...perhaps twice the length of your own." 

"What?" Evelyn asked, far more loudly than she should have, shock coloring her voice. His fingers stilled as she turned her head to stare at him over her shoulder. His expression was matter of fact and, unless she imagined it, just slightly smug.

"Yes, though I favored a style considerably more...elaborate than the one you wear," Solas said and his fingertips pressed against the base of her skull, urging her to face ahead again. "I wore it arranged in thick, rolled locks, often twisted at the crown of my head, occasionally adorned with bone decorations, beads, strips of leather, even feathers if the mood struck me." He had worked the tangles from her hair and Evelyn listened, rapt, as his fingers carded through and expertly drew segments of her hair between them. "I was terribly handsome in my youth, a fact I exploited quite mercilessly."

"You are still handsome Solas," Evelyn replied, correcting the slight he'd paid himself so easily as he wound her hair into a secure and complex arrangement. 

"Thank you." She could hear the private smile in his voice at her flattery. He let a moment of silence mark the pause in his story, waited for her to respond with her customary 'you're welcome', and continued. "I do sometimes miss the stares of adoration, but I can't honestly say that this style isn't infinitely more practical...if somewhat colder." Once his fingers had moved from her scalp, she had lost all sense of his progress. It wasn't until he touched her shoulder and silently requested the band she held, that she realized he was nearly done. 

The moment rapidly approached its end and, with a sense of dread that she might have to give it up, to return to her day and the harrowing nature of it, Evelyn hesitantly asked: "What color was your hair?"

She felt him chuckle and there was a slight tug as he tied the end of her braid. He brushed it over her shoulder and, with the knowledge that she wouldn't interrupt him or complicate his efforts, Evelyn turned back and faced him. He was seated facing her, legs astride the fallen log beneath them, and though his expression had faded back to something unreadable, there was a lightness in his eyes. She was glad to have helped kindle that, if nothing else.

"Would you believe me if I told you I don't quite recall?" Solas asked, amused, and Evelyn nearly laughed. She bit down the sound but, before she could say anything, Solas's forefinger and thumb caught the tip of her chin. They were seated closely, but not so close that she couldn't lean away, couldn't put a stop to this if she desired. Solas leaned forward until his forehead rested against hers, but otherwise made no untoward moves, and Evelyn, as she had a hundred times before, gave into her selfishness and tilted her head until she met his lips. The kiss was chaste and lingering. The warmth of his hand and his breath pushed the chill away, and she hated and craved it at once. When she drew back, he released her without hesitation.

"Why are you awake so early?" Evelyn asked as she once again schooled her face and her posture. Her left arm rested between them and his warmth was already seeping into it, pushing away the numbing chill of the hours that preceded dawn. The sensation of the anchor wasn't anything as comfortable as a throbbing, if anything it felt like the rush of sand in an hourglass. Each grain was bladed, salted, and ate away at her hand without actually devouring the flesh. Some days it trickled slowly but, as her arm warmed, she knew today would not be one of those days.

"I had trouble sleeping," Solas admitted and his expression shifted slightly, as though he were studying her, turning her over in his mind and staring at the facets of her. It was a welcome change, even as it twisted something in her chest, and she settled a genial hand on his shoulder.

"You should try again," Evelyn said, gently but firmly. "Today might be very long." They were closing the rift in the veil that Solas had predicted. Of course, she had no doubt there would be a rift there; Solas was too brilliant to be wrong about the Fade. If it were as large as he predicted, however, she would need him alert. He recognized all of this, if the short sigh he released was any indication, and he leveled a rueful sort of smile at her as he drew himself up. 

"Very well, I shall try again. Goodnight, _vhenan ara._ "

"Sleep well," Evelyn added sincerely and was left alone, plunged into numbing cold and solitude again as he moved to his tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor knows that they are going to die, the anchor was never intended to be used by a mortal and is slowly tearing them apart, but they don't tell anyone or seek treatment because they genuinely believe that no one should be able to wield such power. Knowing that they intend to die, the Inquisitor tries to reduce the emotional collateral damage to any members of the Inquisition.
> 
> "To that end, she picks as her regular party the three companions least likely to care about her as a person: Cassandra and Varric, who both see her almost strictly as a religious symbol, and Solas, who she's caught looking at her like she's an experiment, and not the fun kind.
> 
> Unfortunately, she's absolutely, spectacularly wrong. Whether romantic or friendly, all three of her companions fall deeply in love with her, even though she is completely oblivious. 
> 
> If she thought she was going to die without a fight, maybe she shouldn't have picked the three most stubborn people in Thedas."


	2. What Lies Dormant

The hike up the mountain was awash with distractions, bright and beautiful, and Evelyn found herself practically beaming as they traveled. The searing bite of the anchor was worse than she'd expected, the pain had her arm trembling as dawn crested the trees, and it had been mounting ever since. It was agony, splintering against every joint, pressing up through her skin. She could feel the spiderweb of her own veins, seething beneath her skin, from her fingertips to her shoulder, but _this place_ was perfect. Even agony couldn't taint the delight that stole over her.

The trail was old, long abandoned, and the water that tumbled silver and icy from the falls to the west was gradually washing it away. They trudged uphill, against the shallow, noisy creek, and water that should have only hit their ankles soaked them all to the knee. Evelyn had misjudged a stone, sometime near mid-morning, and found it far less secure than she'd expected. She fell forward into the icy water, struck her knees on stone, and the chill crept between the pieces of her leather armor, into her tall boots. Now, every step had a slosh and squish to it, every breeze carried a shiver, and the gradual warmth of the sun on her back was a welcome surprise as they moved through dancing shade.

Muddied, wet, and bruised, she could not have been happier. Dragonflies darted from stalks of crimson spindleweed, blood lotus pods hissed and rushed as the water stirred them, and every so often a wooly ram would bound past them, bleating in shock as it veered to avoid the four travelers. As they crested the steepest hill, she turned to watch one, her amusement plain as it darted through a fennec nest and sent them scattering. The foxes spooked it, somehow, and it leapt across the river, nearly colliding with Solas in its haste, and fled up the narrow, mossy ledges along the cliffside until it vanished from sight. The experience had not ruffled Solas, few things did, but Varric seemed less than enchanted with the natural wonder around them. Still, he was silent as they continued, and even seemed cheery once the path was more land than water and the sun shone down strong and warm overheard.

Evelyn's demeanor clearly baffled her companions, but they graciously refrained from mocking her as the day progressed. She was grateful for that, more than words could say; these simple joys were a salve on her very soul. Unfortunately, the hike could not last indefinitely, and when they broke to rest, on the sun-bathed banks of the river, the lightness of her mood ebbed away. She didn't sit at first, even as all of her companions rested on the tender grass, but without the thrill of motion, of new sights, the feel of water in her boots and the creek rushing past her ankles was steadily less enchanting. Eventually, she dropped onto the grassy slope, settled on a spot in the sunshine beside Varric, and stripped her boots to empty them.

"You know--" Varric said loudly, in what he meant to be a firm tone, but that was undermined by his heavy, winded breathing. "--I really--really miss-- _paved streets_." He drew a deep breath and let it out with an audible sound. Evelyn frowned slightly as she regarded him, he was wet from the waist down, half soaked and entirely exhausted. Trudging uphill in water had been twice as hard for him as it had the rest of them and the thought hadn't even occurred to her. She felt a pang of guilt as she watched him gradually catch his breath. 

"I'm sorry, Varric, we'll try to find an easier way back down," Evelyn said, just a bit ruefully, and the dwarf waved a gloved hand at her as he basked in the sunlight.

"Don't worry, Sunshine," Varric replied and paused to breathe deeply. He didn't bother to pick his head up off the grass. When he lowered his hand, he folded both together over his waist, looking all the world like a man on vacation. "Had to go mountaineering eventually--requirement for dwarfhood--"

"I was unaware that dwarfhood had requisites." Solas's tone was prim, as always, but not unkind. Varric muttered something unintelligible in response and, when Solas leaned over him, ready to ask that he repeat himself, the dwarf knocked his arm out from under him and sent him sprawling in the grass. Cassandra stifled a laugh, caught the sound just as it bubbled up, and schooled some edge of disapproval into her expression. She did a fair job of it, until Solas sat back up, the fur hood of his cloak speckled with grass, leaves, and tiny yellow flowers. Between his being disheveled at all and the nature of the decoration, Cassandra had to give in and smile. It was apologetic, if nothing else, and Solas did her the courtesy of pretending he hadn't heard her stifled laughter.

Unfortunately, Evelyn had a far easier time reining in her humor. Solas had not been wrong about this rift, and even a half hour's hike from it, she could feel it, straining against the veil, hidden within the mountain. It hadn't opened yet and the tension it pressed on her senses wasn't unlike the feel of a knife pressing against skin--it didn't have the force to pierce, to rupture anything, not yet, but it was merely a matter of time. 

She found herself staring up at the mountain as she considered the rift. The sun was behind it and, as they climbed, their path would be much colder and with far less protection from the wind. Though she disliked the idea of warming, of removing any distractions she could have latched on to, it was only right to allow her companions the time to dry out before they set out again.

"We can rest here awhile, the sun is nice and you all deserve a break." She turned her attention back to find Cassandra and Varric watching her. Solas was picking debris from his hood, but the tilt of his head meant he was listening. There was a moment of silence before Cassandra moved fully into the sun, settled between Solas and Varric, and began the process of removing her greaves and boots. The process was blessedly noisy, as removing plate usually was, and it was easy to focus on.

"If we plan to remain, we should lay out our boots to dry," Cassandra suggested in a way that was not, in fact, a suggestion. Varric groaned but, without delay, sat up and stripped his shoes off. "The path is likely to be slippery, already; there is no reason to compound the risk."

"And this is where you extol the virtues of going shoeless, Chuckles," Varric added, after a beat, and tossed his shoes up the hill, just above his head. A moment later, Cassandra's boots were arranged alongside his, and Evelyn shortly followed suit.

"While there is considerable appeal in the lack of maintenance," Solas answered gradually, his voice light and carefree, "Traveling for hours through water, then along potentially icy ledges, is not an especially _compelling_ example. But never fear, Master Tethras, I shall extol at length when next we wander wooded meadows or warm sand beaches."

There was a beat of silence, but it was Cassandra who broke it, her voice curious and with an edge of caring and concern.

"I thought your feet didn't suffer the cold, Solas?" 

The Seeker, despite having just reclined against the hillside, propped herself up on her elbows and turned her attention on the elf. Though Evelyn couldn't see her face, she had no doubt the warrior's brow was creased with gentle worry. Solas smiled at her, demure and reassuring, and paused his efforts to clean the fur about his shoulders.

"They do not, Seeker," Solas assured her, quietly. "While I feel it, my feet are not so easily damaged by it as yours or Master Tethras's, there is no cause for concern."

"So now you're just giving me hell for the fun of it," Varric interrupted, dryly.

"Now?" Solas asked. "Have my ribbings gone unnoticed for so long?"

"You two are insufferable," Cassandra said, dropping back to the grass. Her tone was gruff, but she seemed much relieved by Solas's assurances. Truth be told, Evelyn found equal comfort in that quiet correction; the idea that she could relish a day that brought all of her companions discomfort was distressing.

The sun seemed to move slower here, it crawled lazily into the sky, warm and bright, and her sodden breeches and coat dried with lamentable speed. All too quickly the cool sensation on her limbs faded to a comfortable, slight damp, and Evelyn couldn't restrain a sigh. 

Of the four of them, she easily wore the most clothing. Varric eschewed shirts whenever possible and favored plush, fine fabrics over equally fine mail. Cassandra wore more metal than cloth and the leathers she wore beneath her armor were startlingly resistant to the elements. Solas, perhaps, would have taken longer to dry, given his fur and the finely knit layers he wore beneath his robes, but he was always content to dry himself with a quick flash of magic. If her own clothing was merely damp, between her layers of cotton, leather, heavy gloves and thick breeches, the others were long dry and simply waiting on her.

It was nearly midday when Evelyn reached back to retrieve her boots. The others took that as an unspoken cue and, when she drew her damp footwear on, it was with solemn, mechanical speed. Though she was loathe to continue forward, to come any closer to the knife's edge pressed against the veil, it was inevitable. Idly, she hoped closing this rift would offer some reprieve to the pain spreading down her side, but even unvoiced, it sounded like little more than a fantasy. Evelyn stood first and offered a hand to Varric. He took it, groaning dramatically as she pulled him up from his relaxation, and she let out an amused huff in response.

"And just when I was starting to get comfortable." Varric's complaint was insincere, but Evelyn still leveled an apologetic look at him.

"We are not far from our final goal." Solas moved along the path toward them; his feet barely left an imprint on the coarse sand. The map in his hands was well used but well cared for and he traced the fine markings as he glanced between it and the mountain ahead. "If all goes well, I cannot see why the afternoon couldn't be spent enjoying the sun and the scenery." 

He looked from his map, to Varric, and then to the Inquisitor, seeking silent permission. Evelyn glanced up at the mountain, where that knife pressed against her mind, and offered him a short nod.

"The day will be spent either way, we might as well enjoy what we can."

Varric and Solas took her answer well. Their faces didn't betray much, but their stances seemed lighter, less braced, as she agreed to the plan. If Cassandra had an opinion, it was lost to the motion and clatter of armor as she finished strapping on her greaves. When the warrior rose, Solas motioned to the narrow path ahead of them. They'd been forewarned about the climb, but his detailing was not unwelcome, and when he was finished they started up the rock face. 

The ledge was narrower than any of them would have liked, and required they travel carefully and single-file for a good distance. The grade of the climb was steep enough that, had the wind been more or the weather worse, it would have been deadly. As it was, the sharp angle and considerable drop was merely dizzying, but whatever relaxation they'd found while resting was quickly lost as they watched their footing and, consequently, kept their eyes locked downward. Travel was slow going and a hike that should have lasted half an hour took three times that. When they reached the mouth of the cave...of the ruin? It was well into the afternoon and the sun was at their backs. 

Despite the dashing of their previous plans, there was some fortune in the time of their arrival. As they descended uneven stone steps into the remains of an ancient vestibule, the afternoon light provided some visibility. When they passed out of it, into the oppressive darkness beyond, it became all too apparent that merely waiting, hoping that their eyes would adjust, wouldn't be sufficient. There was a fine flare of magic and Solas stepped forward, a thin wisp of blue flame cradled in his fingers. The veilfire succeeded where the sunlight had failed to gain any foothold. Something about the blue, whispering flame was more persistent, more pervasive than the gold light at their backs and, as Solas lit the dark, iron braziers on the wall ahead, the darkness retreated.

"Cheerful," Varric said, low and wary, as they peered around the entryway. 

Stones had fallen from the ceiling, from the walls, and lay scattered about the floor. They were decorative, that much was obvious, given this room had been carved from a mountainside and not constructed of brick and mortar, but the decay was not encouraging. A thick layer of moss engulfed and softened the corners of every surface, curved the edges of the room and the shallow alcove that rose across from the entry. While there were bones scattered about, they were old, relics from long ago, and patches of dull, glittering deep mushroom sprouted from the shelter that abandoned ribs and hollowed skulls provided.

"Is this a tomb?" Cassandra asked. She was not afraid, nor curious, not exactly, but confused. All but the most basic architecture had long since worn away and, somehow, even the presence of bare skeletons and cackling blue flame couldn't grant the bare, worn walls any meaning.

"I do not know," Solas admitted quietly, veilfire dancing at his fingertips, and walked a slow line in front of the alcove before them. In the light, perched on the shelf below the braziers, he passed a few scattered items. Against the wall sat a broken vase, long ago swallowed by mud, the remains of a basket sat near the center, withered stems and cobwebs inside and about it, and some scrap of rotted fabric draped the edge by a fallen keystone. These were all that remained on the wide shelf. If they had ever served a purpose beyond decoration, it was lost to time.

"There are stairs," Evelyn noted aloud as Solas reached the end of the wall. She didn't see them so much as she hadn't seen the veilfire illuminate a wall. The patch of blackness, curved in the shape of an archway, was almost invisible, even under the veilfire. Given the build of the room, there was probably another staircase on the other wall, one that she'd missed altogether. 

"Then it seems our journey takes us deeper into the mountain." Though Solas was the first to step forward, flame held aloft, he did not seem particularly eager to occupy that position. The Inquisitor, without thought or hesitation, moved alongside him and stepped blindly into the black. Her foot found a step, and another, without the aid of sight, and she glanced back over her shoulder.

"Can you make it any brighter, Solas?" 

Solas answered her question with a twist of magic and the thin flame became a substantial sphere, cradled in his palm. She felt the veil thin as he did, the edge of the knife pressed that much harder against her skin, but the serene expression on his face steadied her. She nodded her thanks and continued down the steps.

The farther they traveled into the mountain, the more remained in tact. Shielded from the weather, from the sun, the steps became sharper and sturdier, the walls less worn. When they reached the base of the stairs, there was even the feel of threadbare rug beneath her boots. Unfortunately, the novelty of rugs, however worn, passed out of mind as she stepped into the darkness beyond the stairs. 

This room was too large for even the veilfire to illuminate, she could feel the drafts, the mass of still, dead air that stirred upon their arrival. When her boot met stone again, she could hear the resounding echo, even if she couldn't see any walls or the ceiling above them. This was a hall, large enough for a hundred people, if not more. She wondered if the ceiling was vaulted, if the bare rock was all that remained and if stone and rubble littered the floor. Somehow, she expected not, the stairs had been clear and in reasonable condition, there was no reason to expect this room would deviate.

"Inquisitor?" Solas prompted, uneasily, as she continued forward into the darkness. His sight was the best of the four of them, particularly in the dark, but when she glanced back she saw him straining to see her in the darkness. Her feet carried her forward, the pull nearly magnetic, and she clenched her teeth hard. 

She could _feel it_ , the darkness churned, the air warped around it, and it coiled sharp and deadly. It was taller than any rift she'd seen since the first one, the one that sat directly below the breach itself. Her eyes were wide as she traced the shapes that curled in the black, watched the fragile surface pull and snag on the creatures behind it. It stretched and tensed and, for a long awful moment, she could see through the blackness, could feel the space, the shapes and Fade beyond it. It was hazy, like peering through wet vellum, but it forced her stomach into her throat. She didn't bother to stay the trembling in her arms, in her chest. 

"Draw your weapons." Her voice was dreamy, distracted, and held none of the urgency it should have. Despite the dazed nature of the command, her companions complied instantly and the sound of steel being unsheathed, of Bianca's springs and gears locking into place, echoed in the chamber. The scrape of Solas's staff was what drew her from her near trance. He would try to assist her, and with his staff to channel it he would bathe the room in veilfire. She could almost feel the strain, how it drew the veil too thin, as he silently shifted the spell. "--wait!"

She'd dreaded this moment since she woke and when his spell snagged the veil, it ran, like fine cloth caught on bramble. Each stray thread, that freed itself was a sickening pop beneath her skin, deep in her muscles, and her left hand seized closed as the anchor flared to life. The green light must have illuminated her horror because Solas's face blanked with shock, even as the blue, whispering light poured forth from the head of his staff. For a single, fragile second the hall, a great chamber with balconies and a sunken expanse, was cast in cool, brilliant blue. The dusty carpets shone with ancient, tarnished threads of precious metal, bears stared down at them from the tapestries that adorned the walls, and the braziers on the far wall were silent until the veilfire caught them and lit the high ceiling. Then, with the force of a serpent's strike, the veil finally ruptured.

The veilfire, even the light that poured off Solas's staff, was extinguished, smothered in a wave of force and tangible desperation. The sound it made was deafening, a shrieking hiss that rebounded off the walls, but they were too close, and it rebounded back again and again. The sensation of a knife being driven through her became a lance, barbed and jagged, and it felt as though it parted her ribs just below her heart. The rip in the veil hovered, drawing her in by that intangible, biting hold, and pushed her away with the flood of magic, of Fade that poured out, eagerly into this world. She hadn't screamed, but her mouth tasted of copper and there was a shooting pain in her jaw--had she broken a tooth? 

Before she could even consider what to do, the wound in the veil clotted. Reality pressed back in on it, forced that without form or reason to adopt both and there was a moment of crackling silence where the air fought to become solid and the ground tried to become intangible. Everything snapped into place in a dizzying instant and a great, green and black crystal coalesced. It stretched from the floor to the ceiling, marring both and warping stone around it. 

Her mark twisted in her palm, ground against her bones, against her flesh, and tried to force her body into a configuration that would serve it, that would align with the rift. She crushed it in her palm and then against her bow as she moved, hurriedly, from the fore.

The crystal shifted, cracking and pressing as it tried to expand, tried to bleed out beyond the scab that had grown over it. The floor bubbled as it leaked and a fresh lance of pain shot through Evelyn's jaw as she clenched against the sensation of her skin being peeled away. Shapes burst forth from the oozing wounds in the veil and she wanted to tear at her arm; she could feel their movement before they appeared, like insects in her veins, but once they were real they could be driven back. Once they were real, they could be killed. It was with no small relish that she drew her bow and loosed an arrow into the eye of a terror.

Cassandra dove past her, heedless of the warping of the world around her. She was a being of pure stability and the world was made more real simply by her presence. Her sword drove into one of the beasts and Evelyn could feel her focus returning to her, could separate what was real from what clawed against the walls and tried to _become_. Another arrow loosed and a bolt from Bianca felled the second terror. Behind her, the crack of Solas's magic drove the third horror back toward the crystal.

Now, with the world unraveled, his magic soothed the chaos. He forced order, channeled the desperate flow of the Fade into something with form, something that flowed in tune with the world around it, and the biting cold settled her nerves, as it always did. Varric shattered the third beast with a heavy shot to its chest. Its shriek peeled back the surface of the stones as it dissolved to nothing.

The veil snapped across them, as it often did, and the air quaked as the world tried to force itself back into shape. Often it failed, there were too many spirits, too many demons clawing to become real, fighting to exist on this side, and reality couldn't stem the flood. This time, with the rift so deep and the veil so thin, Evelyn wasn't shocked that the veil failed to correct itself. The crystal snapped and twisted, the air became liquid again, and gravity tried to heave itself upside down. Odd as it was, it was not unusual...but there was something wrong this time, something different, and dread settled in her gut as she watched it. 

She felt the blood drain from her face, and her grip on her weapon faltered as she failed to fight the trembling in her arms. The crystal cracked in two, jumped, skipped as though time had interrupted itself, and expanded. This time, no conscious effort could have prevented the scream that tore through her--her bow clattered to the ground and she curled over her left arm. It felt like it was being split in two, cleft apart from fingers to elbow, and the anchor readily flooded the space that sensation created.

"Inquisitor!" Cassandra's voice was sharp, her shout firm, but the ground was already boiling and, as Evelyn fell to her knees, blinded by agony, the walls quaked and the air took form. 

Electricity danced across every surface, and the grinding metallic laughter of the Pride demons assaulted them from all sides. Cassandra was shouting, her directions were quick and harsh. The flare of Solas's magic curled through the air, twisted in a never-ending torrent at her side. Behind her, so close that she could feel the heat off his back, even as she curled with her forehead pressed against the stone floor, Varric called back to the others. The recoil of Bianca was a steady beat, not unlike a heart, and it was all Evelyn could focus on. Pain consumed her every sense, there was no room for thought, for fear or anger; it washed her away and left only a vessel in her absence. She had no air to scream and gaped silently as she arched into the floor. 

After a brief, senseless eternity, the beat of Bianca stopped and she was adrift, lost in terrible sensation. When Varric's hand came down on her shoulder, there was no kindness to it. He gripped her hard and hauled her up, onto her knees, off of the floor. She couldn't hear him, couldn't see him, but feeling his hand on her was just enough. The anchor strained against her arm and she'd give anything to make the pain stop--it had to. She threw out her hand, terrified and desperate, and felt the energy as it was torn out of her. Piece by piece, it stripped her to her bones and when it had run out of fuel, it dug in and consumed her. The pain was different, but no less than before, and she sagged into Varric's hard grasp as the anchor tore at the rift. 

When the crystal shattered, it was like stepping out of the darkness and into the sun. Everything took on a terrible clarity in that moment and, one by one, the demons dissolved and returned their forms to the air, to the stone. Reality rushed against the rift, pressing it until it was little more than a glimmering haze of sickening green and, wearily, Evelyn twisted the anchor, drew its power back into herself, and slammed the tear closed. Silence fell as the rift collapsed in on itself; she could hear her own ragged, desperate breathing as darkness engulfed the room. Varric's grip loosened and she wished it hadn't, without his fingers digging into her shoulder, there was nothing to hold her up.

She had nothing left.

Evelyn fell forward and struck the floor at full force. She didn't have the energy or the presence of mind to catch herself. When Solas struck up the veilfire once more, her vision swam and she passed out, her frantic pulse hammering in her ears.


	3. Shades of Truth

The streets rose up to meet her, black as midnight, oozing like pitch beneath a twisting green sky. It was a familiar walk. No matter how she fled, how she tore through dreams to escape, the streets always rose up to meet her, always beckoned her down the same terrible path. Every night, her feet sank into them and each step tore a piece of her free, slowly ripping her apart as she walked. Some nights, the pavement swallowed her whole, drank her down and filled her mouth, her eyes, as the blight consumed her. On others, when the pull of the anchor was a heavy chain, tethered and tangled with her soul, she was drawn toward the center of the city, dragged and pulled against the glassy black roads until she was worn away to nothing.

Evelyn recognized this dream, just as she had the last few hundred times, just as she would for the next, and dread welled deep in her gut. Everything was hazy and sharp all at once, like knives hiding in thick fog, and all around her there was the deafening _sound_ of this place. Whispers of lyrium, of veilfire, the song of the Blight, from every corner of the Fade they seemed to converge around her. Hundreds, thousands of quiet, senseless, fetid voices breathed against the back of her neck, across her cheeks, and curdled against her skin. Combined, they were indistinct and overwhelming, like the persistent roar of the ocean, and they rotted in her ears. She could never shut them out and she could never pull them apart. She'd stopped trying to long ago. 

Evelyn tried, as she often did, to wake herself. She crushed her eyes closed, twisted her fingers into the mark on her hand until fresh pain carved through her side, but it rarely worked. She opened her eyes and found the city still before her and the weight in her stomach became a cold knot, twisting with anticipation. When her flesh began to crawl and her left arm jerked at her side, she knew what was coming. The terror was old, now, laced with resignation, and she watched in muted horror as her forearm finally ruptured. Ancient black chain spilled from her flesh, as sharp and indistinct as the city around her, and one by one the links rang out as they struck the glassy ground. They were heavy and huge, each the size of her fist, and they poured from her arm like water through a crack in a dam. 

Time was strange in the Fade, especially here, but an eternity seemed to pass as she stared at the wound in her arm. Then, gradually, the links piled below her began to sink into the surface of the road. She felt them as they were swallowed up, the tug on her arm, and waited for what was to come. In a moment, they would catch on something, something great and terrible and wrong, and the anchor would be pulled wherever it was meant to go, wherever Corypheus had designed it to take him. Evelyn braced, her teeth clenched tight, closed her eyes, and waited. ...But something happened, then, something twisted the fog, the shapes of the building, and the chain inside her arm rattled.

' _Vhenan?_ '

Even with her eyes closed, they could still see, it was some trick of dreams, persistent no matter how hard she tried to look away. She opened them, again, and watched as shades of midnight twisted away, as the lyrium song warbled and gave way to a familiar figure of blue and cold. He was shaped like the word, familiar, slow, and rounded in a lyrical way. He moved like a wisp, trailing light and fading around a skeletal shell, but she knew him. The hand that settled on her shoulder was cool and serene and sang with the feel of his magic. 

Solas.

She could feel his strain, the glittering trickle of energy that poured off of him as he maintained contact. He was struggling, trying to catch sand as it slipped through his fingers, and she was torn. She wanted to cling to him, more than anything she wanted him to stay, but she knew what was going to happen. She could feel the twist of the chain in her arm, the bleed of agony beyond what she could have tolerated if she were awake, and knew she didn't want him to suffer with her. She felt the chain catch below her, snagged on something that swam in the depths of the black and, in a moment of desperate clarity, she pushed his hand aside. 

Solas was not easily deterred, she should have known better. He grasped at her blindly, flickering in the fog like a match in a gale, and tangled his fingers around hers. His hold was tight when the chain snapped taught and he fought the pull of it with everything he could. His grip was so sure, his will so unyielding that, when the pull of the anchor finally rent her in half, there was still a phantom hand in hers.

Evelyn woke violently, sputtering and gasping, with a scream caught in her chest. Her throat closed against the sound, raw and tight, and her mouth was sticky with the taste of old blood. She twisted blindly, tried to bend into the pull of the phantom chain, even as it faded, tried to claw the chain from her arm, to dig it from the flesh, but a heavy weight was on her before her terror chased her to waking. Her every muscle wanted to tear into her arm, regardless of the force holding it, and her limbs seared and strained painfully as her restraints shifted. A boot came down across her right wrist pinning it to stone, and something round, hard and bony, ground down against her left. 

As awareness crept back in and the nightmare ebbed, her struggling ceased. Her eyes were open but it took a very long time to see. When she could, when the world in front of her eyes became real, it was in strange orange and blue light. It glowed, muddy and pastel against a mundane, shadowed ceiling. For a moment, that was all Evelyn saw, and then she let her head rock forward. Varric knelt above her...on her, his knee ground down against her wrist and his hands pressed hard against her chest-plate, crushing her back against the floor. Cassandra loomed above him, expression deadly and unforgiving. The seeker's boot pinned her right arm hard, without mercy, while her hands rested on her sword and braced her shield. Orange light shone off the metal; it was all edges, all distinction, and Evelyn knew for certain that she wasn't dreaming.

Evelyn blinked slowly, heavily, and her eyes tracked from the Seeker to the wall. A single veilfire brazier had been lit and, beneath it, bathed in blue light, she found Solas. He sat deathly still but awake, his eyes locked hard, staring at her, through her. His expression was both unreadable and unkind and Evelyn could only stare back. Next to him, his staff was propped against the stone, and beneath it his pack and cloak had been hurriedly cast aside. His hands were folded across his lap, his back braced against the wall. Something about his posture, about the scene, didn't make sense and she couldn't remember why. It took her a moment to dredge up the dream, she rarely tried, rarely wanted to, and her brow dipped as she managed it. He'd found her in the Fade, hadn't he? He'd been there...but not entirely, he hadn't made it inside her head? Or he hadn't made it inside the city? 

_Maker_ , he'd held onto her. 

He'd felt her body snap and part, felt her ribs unzip and come away. He'd heard her terror, her pain. Her expression crumbled around her shock and sorrow welled deep in her chest.

"I'm so sorry, Solas." Her voice broke and wavered, tangled in itself as it tried to leave her abused throat, and she screwed her eyes closed as she forced herself to look away from him. Any notion he'd had that she was strong enough, any belief or confidence she'd fostered, had certainly been broken by that dream. It had been inevitable, she knew that, but the illusion of his support had been a great, selfish comfort. Now she'd lost it and felt bereft. When she opened her eyes again and looked at the others, it wasn't much easier.

Varric was closest to her, bent above her, disheveled and strained. His expression a strange mix of sympathy and sickness, like he'd rather be somewhere far away. There was a reluctance in the way his hands held her down, in the hard pressure against her arm. He wanted to release her, to draw away, but he didn't trust her. The dwarf cast a look back, turned his vision upward to the Seeker and, to her great credit, Cassandra didn't break her careful, vigilant stare to acknowledge him. Her hand was wrapped, hard and tight around the hilt of her sword. There was no sympathy in her expression; her shoulders were all hardness, her posture unbent, and the boot on Evelyn's arm didn't shift. Steel ran beneath her skin. 

For a long, long moment, Evelyn was certain the Seeker would draw her blade and end this, put a stop to this farce, to her weakness, and she was almost glad of it. 

She didn't.

"Solas?" Cassandra's voice was carefully measured, tempered and hardened to a cutting edge. Her stance didn't give an inch as she waited for his reply. It took the mage nearly a full minute to find his voice, when he did he sounded hoarse and exhausted. His footfalls as he approached were heavy, his gait uneven, and Evelyn closed her eyes in shame. It was hard to breathe; her heart twisted as Varric hesitantly allowed some of the pressure on her chest to abate.

"She is herself, Seeker, I am certain," Solas assured Cassandra, gently, his pauses laced with heavy, silent breathing. 

All at once, the weight that ground her into the floor, the sharp edges that dug at her and pinned her where she lie, drew away. Before she could even open her eyes, a fist closed in the collar of her coat and hauled her up with force. She was drawn, immediately, into a diagonal, crushing embrace. Varric's face pressed hard against the side of her neck, buried against her as his arms tried, with all the force they could manage, to draw her into himself. Evelyn opened her eyes, too confused and dazed to be anything as energetic as surprised, and moved, automatically, sluggishly, to wind an arm around him and return the unexpected gesture. Before she could embrace him, Varric abruptly drew away. He parted them just far enough to glare bloody murder into her face. His other hand fisted against her other shoulder and he held her there, dangling and half sprawled on the stone, as he found his words.

"Don't you _ever_ do that again," Varric demanded, almost nonsensically, his tone deathly serious and ice cold. "Do you hear me? _Never_." He shook her, just slightly, and, with the same confusing, abruptness drew her into another embrace. Despite the frustration in his voice, this hug was far more tender, more kind, and Evelyn was at a total loss. Her confusion was so complete that she had no doubt it was splayed across her face, bold and blatant, for any of them to see.

"I'm sorry, Varric," she said, sincerely, if bewildered. She would have promised him what he demanded, but she had no idea what it was; his meaning, the reason for his anger completely eluded her.

"Let her up, Varric." Cassandra's tone was firm but warm and drew Evelyn's attention as surely as anything could have. The edge of steel in her had faded, relaxed, and even in the dreamy light and dimness, Evelyn could see the smile that lingered beneath her calm. She bent, knelt at Evelyn's other side, and gently disengaged Varric's hold so she could help Evelyn stand. The Seeker all but lifted her by the lip of the armor across her chest and, when her legs struggled beneath her, slipped a hand beneath her shoulder. There was something distant in the look Cassandra leveled at her, then, something piercing, but the silent sigh that left her felt like a sob. Relief softened her features considerably and, once again, Evelyn was at a loss. Though she didn't move to embrace her, the Seeker's hand squeezed her shoulder and held her up, comforting and kind, even as Solas stepped before her, grim and weary.

"I require a moment alone with the Inquisitor," Solas said, slowly, almost darkly, as his fathomless grey eyes stared into her. For a moment, Evelyn was certain he could see through her as easily as she'd peered through him in the Fade. Was she so transparent? To Solas? Probably.

" _Andraste's ass_ you do," Varric snapped and, next to her Cassandra went rigid. "We all saw what happened when that rift shifted; if there's some Fade bullshit going on, I damned well want to know about it."

"Varric," Cassandra said, quietly, almost softly, and turned to look at him. The seeker's voice was kind, but the tension in her hands, in her stance lingered.

"You saw it too, Seeker! You heard her scream!" Varric gestured widely and violently, his face red with fury. He leveled a nearly hysterical, livid glare at Solas. "Maker, we were ready to--"

" _Varric_ ," Cassandra repeated, in the same volume, the same cadence, and stared at him in silence. Varric paled as he stared back at her and his eyes darted between the warrior and Evelyn with subtle speed. The tension in Cassandra's shoulders, in her stance, agreed with Varric, but the Seeker was rational above all else; the Seeker trusted Solas and she silently asked Varric to extend his trust in her. After a moment, Varric deflated slightly, his decision made, but ran a gloved hand through his disheveled hair as his angry glower shifted between the warrior and the mage.

"I'm not getting shut out of this," he snapped, his tone firm, but let his argument simmer in silence. Cassandra opened her mouth to speak but, with a speed that seemed to weary him further, Solas cut her off.

"You will not be shut out, Varric, but this is... _private_ ," Solas told him as he caught his breath, his words slow and soft. When he blinked the motion was heavy, almost pained, and it betrayed how much he'd spent of himself in Evelyn's dream. A second wave of shame slammed into her and Evelyn was forced to look away. All three of them did her the courtesy of not seeing. "I have no doubt the Inquisitor wouldn't wish me to know what I have seen; I will not share a secret that isn't mine to tell."

"Shit," Varric hissed, just under his breath, and turned, his hands braced hard against his sides. He drew a frustrated, heaving breath and spoke back over his shoulder. He wouldn't look at her again. "Go easy on her, Chuckles."

"You have my word," Solas replied tiredly, and chased his promise with muttered, reverent elven. 

"Can you stand?" 

The question seemed sudden. The conversation had strayed around her, had bent in a deliberate effort not to include her, and Evelyn had grown used to it, even thankful for it. For several minutes she hadn't needed to lie, to try to rebuild her shattered image, and it was a shock when that lack of focus changed. When Cassandra addressed her directly, leaned forward just slightly and squeezed her shoulder again, Evelyn almost didn't realize she was being asked a question. After a dazed pause, Evelyn tried to take stock of her body. Her limbs felt fuzzy, pain radiated across her, from the anchor and from more mundane sources, but the coltish weakness in her legs had subsided. She looked up at Cassandra and her voice caught in her throat, instead she settled for inclining her head. The Seeker waited a moment and, as gingerly as she had ever done anything, released her. Cassandra kept watch on her as she stepped back and, assured that Evelyn wasn't going to abruptly collapse, she turned and settled a hand on Varric's shoulder. 

Evelyn watched as Cassandra and Varric left, as they walked past a mundane fire, kindled in a circle of fallen stone by the wall, and started up the stairs.

They were still in the ruins?

Her eyes drifted across their surroundings. They were standing inside ruin that had held the rift. She blinked blearily, but the shadowed, mossy stones remained. When her gaze landed on Solas her breath left her and her heart caught in her chest. The elf was staring at her with razor focus, his face expressionless. When he reached out, without preamble or permission, and took her left hand by the wrist, she could only watch. He lifted the arm, carefully, delicately, and his free hand lighted at the bend of her elbow. A look of deep thought, a pinched expression of effort ghosted across his features and his fingers hovered over her forearm for some time. He was grasping for something, in the corners of his mind, but Evelyn had no idea what, and the waiting was excruciating. 

Long minutes passed and, almost without her notice, the trembling that seized her arm, day and night, began again. Solas merely watched the limb as it began to shake. With his fingers wrapped around her wrist, even gloved as it was, he could doubtless feel the jerking myriad of spasms that pulled at her muscles. He studied the limb, his face detached and blank, and Evelyn could only watch him. Gently, he settled his other hand across her forearm and, when he felt the trembling more keenly, he nearly tore his hand away. Whether he was surprised or revolted, she couldn't tell, but his brows knit and a frown pulled his face as he stared. Hesitantly, or perhaps reluctantly, he placed his hand back on her arm and forced it to remain. Minutes ground past, his hard stare fixed on her arm, his hands tense and uneasy where they pressed against her, and Evelyn felt cold in the worst way. 

This was precisely why she'd chosen him, of course. This why she wanted Solas, specifically, by her side. The hurt his examination inspired was her own to carry; she was a curiosity, something he indulged in and watched with interest, little more. She should not feel bereft of something she neither had nor deserved. After a long time, drowning in his silence, she sucked in a tight breath and, with the force of will she'd learned over months, forced her arm to still. The muscles froze beneath his touch. They were tense and rigid, and the pain felt sharper, splintered as she focused, but her arm was finally rendered motionless, finally normal again. With a speed that had her reeling, Solas's gaze snapped to her face, his blank expression abruptly livid.

"You _hide_ it?" He hissed, his voice quiet and seething, almost aghast. She flinched as though he were a snake, poised to strike, and that only seemed to incise him further. The fingers around her wrist tightened unconsciously and bit into her flesh. Before she could answer him, he pulled her arm and drew her close. She could feel his anger, his betrayal; they were nearly tangible as they poured off of him.

"How long?" The question didn't make sense, and Evelyn's confused silence drew a frustrated sound from him. Solas did not often repeat himself, and he was even less likely to clarify his own words, but he deigned to now. "You tremble with fear, even now. You sleep trapped in a nightmare I cannot reach, suffered a vivid, gruesome death as real as anything I've ever witnessed. Your terror was blinding, your pain excruciating, and I felt all of it as I held onto you." His words rushed in a torrent, his attention jumping from one point to the next, without offering her a moment to catch up. Evelyn tried to follow his outrage but she was missing pieces. He took her silence for something, she had no idea what, and his final question was punctuated by a hard grip on her shoulder as his hand left her arm. " _How long has this gone on?_ "

He was inches from her, raging, and Evelyn fought to hold his gaze. She failed and, after a moment, looked away. His hand tightened again on her wrist and she winced, despite herself. Solas had felt her pain, her fear, and all because she'd let him grasp her. She never wanted to see him hurt, let alone see him suffer _her hurt_ , but...more than that, he was wrong. He was fundamentally wrong, and Evelyn struggled between apologizing and correcting his error. She lied, every day, to everyone she met, and while each one bit at her, she'd long ago become numb to the false assumptions made by others. She'd lied to each of them, to Solas himself, more than once, about this very topic. Their assumptions were something she cherished, they allowed her to have moments of normalcy...and yet...the kindness he granted her, the tenderness they all showed, did not deserve more lies. She drew a shaky breath, another sign of weakness, that she wasn't the hero they upheld, and forced herself to look at his face. 

His anger had not passed.

Evelyn opened her mouth to speak, but the words, where to even begin, were beyond her. Her brow creased as she struggled for the truth, to find a way to parse it without lacing it in some lie or another, but even the most basic truths seemed disjointed. They rested so far from his question, they couldn't even masquerade as an answer. She had no talent for words, her tact as Inquisitor was groomed, cultivated by Josephine for specific situations, situations that were impersonal, political...but this.... She needed gentler words, turns of phrase that she lacked, and she suddenly longed for Varric. That she would think to use him, even as she stood facing her own lies, was sickening. She chose a single point, one non-answer to start, and accepted her fate.

"It's not fear," Evelyn said, quietly, nearly hesitantly, and forced herself to hold his gaze. It wasn't an answer, but it was as close to the truth as she could get and still make sense. Solas had awaited her response, patient as only he could be, but he clearly found this statement, this banal correction unacceptable. He released her hand, her shoulder with a furious enthusiasm, turned on his heel, and stalked away, angry in a fashion she'd never seen. 

"Do not _lie_ to me." His demand would have been a shout, but for Cassandra and Varric's presence outside. He wanted to shout, to berate her, and he had every right. "I felt it; it was _crushing_ , you were terrified!"

"I am. I am always afraid," Evelyn agreed, corrected again, and her voice was hollow with the admission. It was so true, so far past being true, that there was no emotion left in the statement, pathetic as it was. His anger was undermined by her admission, by something in the tone of it, and seeing Solas with uncertainty in the set of his shoulder, in the stiffness of his posture, was so uncomfortable that she gave in and looked away from him again. Her eyes lighted on the veilfire brazier and, idly, she recognized the color of his magic, the shape it had taken in her nightmare. "But, it's not fear...it's not the dreams." 

She kept her eyes locked on the wall, on the brazier, as she continued. She couldn't stand to see the anger, the betrayal on his face as she voiced the truth, as she copped to her perpetual distraction. She could almost picture Cassandra's face, the look of disgust when Solas inevitably told her, or Varric's disappointment and the shattering of his trust. She hid her pain, focused to keep it from them, from everyone, and today she'd put them in danger when she failed to overcome it. It had swallowed her whole and they'd been left to battle alone, to defend her as she was rendered utterly useless, an added burden during an already harrowing fight. They were right to be angry.

"It's the pain." Evelyn said and felt all the breath leave her alongside the words. It took her a moment to draw it back in, to force the hollowness in her chest to give way. "If I don't...restrict it... _hide it_...the shaking would never cease." 

She swallowed, her tongue thick in her mouth, her vision fixed on the wall. She closed her open palm, felt the leather of her glove creak, and all she heard was her own vanity. Suddenly, the idea that she was presenting a front, trying to play at being a hero, being strong, inspiring, was all so ridiculous it lost all meaning. She should have been truthful, admitted her weakness to the best of them, the ones she picked because her facade meant so little to them. She'd been foolish, a failure, and desperation resounded in the racing of her heart. What if they left her, disgusted by her vanity? By her failure? She would be left alone, with only her deceptions to comfort her until her death. Her words came faster then, built up speed as she went, and Evelyn found herself barely able to finish a thought before the next occurred. 

"I'm so sorry, Solas, I never meant for you to suffer--if I had known you would feel it, I would never have allowed--I shouldn't have let you--I should have walked away--I'm so very sorry--"

" _...what?_ "

The question was so soft, so small, that Evelyn would have missed it had they been anywhere else. The chattering of the veilfire nearly eclipsed the sound; it was barely more than a breath, fashioned into the shape of words. It silenced her rambling instantly, drew all the air out of the room, and Evelyn froze. Her stomach lurched at the thought of looking up at his rage, of turning her attention just to find a new expression of discontent and anger, but she owed him that courtesy and so much more. She forced her gaze up and found him staring at her, pale and drawn, his expression slack and his eyes wide. She didn't understand the change that had come over him, the abrupt shift threw her completely, and all she could do was stare back. Solas sucked in a breath, his composure utterly shattered by shock, and his hand listed toward her, ever so slightly, as though he thought to reach out. 

He didn't.

His question was vague, so painfully vague. She wanted to answer him, now that she'd found her words, but she didn't know how. The tumbling apologies that sat in her throat were eager, endless, and she wanted to heap them all at his feet, to beg his forgiveness, but that wasn't what he asked, it wasn't what he wanted. His expression begged for clarification, for something to anchor him in this conversation, in her endless disjointed thoughts. There was only one secret she kept from him, from everyone, only one thing that he could not know about. If she could not apologize, she could provide him that, clarify the last thing she understood that he would not, so she did. Evelyn's mind was almost entirely blank when she answered him. 

"It never stops." She swallowed again, fruitlessly. "It wasn't part of the dream. The pain...I--I feel it all the time. I have since I awoke with the mark on my hand."

"...and the fear? That dream?" Solas voice was nearly as dazed, as lost as his slack expression.

"The same." It wasn't a sensible answer, it was too short to really encompass what she was saying, but anything more would have turned into babbling nonsense. He seemed to understand her, for all that she'd failed to answer him, and his deep grey eyes listed away from her as his mind worked. 

Evelyn had watched him paint once, had sat patiently in his chair and watched in silence as he mixed pigments, turned them to colors with a deft eye and delicate hands, and took up his position at the wall. He never drew anything out; no sketch or lines ever preceded the color. Solas didn't build the world from an outline, he built shapes, forms, concepts from the inside, swept pigment and plaster until they had meaning. They'd looked like nothing to her, smudges on a wall, until he caught one edge or another and, suddenly, a haphazard smear became the very picture of a wolf, the countenance of Empress Celene, the rise and fall of shoulders against the sky. She could almost see the sweep of colors in his thoughts now, as they shifted behind his eyes, as vague shapes formed into coherent ideas, as details forced truths into relief. He paled further as he stared into nothing, vision focused on the air in the ruins, and Evelyn knew he'd completed the painting in his mind. 

"Solas," she started, quiet and gentle, but her voice failed her as his eyes darted to meet hers and then, instantly, looked away. Without so much as a word, a look, a twitch of expression, he moved. His feet carried him, quickly and silently to the stairs. 

Evelyn didn't turn to watch him; she couldn't hear him as he walked away.

This was it, then?

Something akin to relief flooded the moment, filled her senses and soothed the painful emptiness in her chest. Alone, standing in the half-light of the veilfire and a dying campfire, Evelyn had arrived at the precipice of the inevitable. She accepted it, for a moment, and another, but something cowardly in her revolted. It was _too soon_ , there was still too much to do, too much time left. The idea of facing it all, all the work left undone, without Solas, Cassandra, or Varric, _with only their contempt_ , it was too much. Evelyn dropped to her knees and heaved a heavy breath. She rocked back and sat on the stone floor, half curled around herself, and tried to keep the images of the future from crushing her. Distantly, she heard Cassandra's voice shouting, heard Varric angry and cursing, but she missed the words.

It took so much effort, so much focus, to simply breathe, to resist the weight of the days to come, that Evelyn didn't notice Varric's presence until he knelt in front of her and forced her to look at him. His hands were already on her shoulders when he caught her attention. He was speaking, but she had no idea what he was saying. He was angry, his scowl was obvious and easy to read, and the tightness, the frustration in his voice twisted the weight around her heart. Solas's anger had been like stepping into a storm, all biting wind and harshness, it engulfed her and left her standing alone and cold. Varric's anger was so much worse, she felt it so much more keenly, because he was so unlike Solas. Varric was warm, kind, _personal_. He was the first to call her friend, the first to coax a smile from her, to care about _Evelyn Trevelyan_ , and his anger cut far more deeply because of it.

He shook her, gently, and she watched his mouth move. She knew, suddenly and with absolute certainty, he would never call her _'Sunshine'_ again.

The weight in her chest was too much, right at that moment, and she let out a tight, choking sob as she gave into it. She hadn't wept in so long, not openly nor in private, that the heat behind her eyes and her nose felt foreign and painful at first. She felt the tears as they fell, bare and thin at first, but they gave way to so many more as Evelyn gave up. She curled forward, into the space between them, but Varric's anger subsided in an instant as she broke down. His hands on her shoulders gentled and, with a tenderness she had lost the privilege to, he tucked her head beneath his chin. A heavy hand settled against the back of her neck. When his thumb stroked across the base of her skull, soothing and warm, Evelyn sagged against him.

Though they shifted and Varric sat beside her, her head and shoulder remained cradled against his chest. She wept for a long time and he stayed with her, in silence, warm and comforting. By the end of it, her head was pounding and her face cold where it pressed against the dampness on his shirt. Without thoughts, fears, and worry pressing in, crowding out the space between her ears, Evelyn could hear again. She listened to the dull crackle of the flame, the quiet, playful whispering of the veilfire, and waited with numb resignation for Varric to speak. If she were stronger, she could cherish this moment, save it to recall when she needed it more, but she wasn't strong and the most she could do, at the moment, was exist. It was several minutes before Varric said a word; his hand didn't move from the back of her head.

"Today has been shit, hasn't it?" Varric asked, at length, in the quiet of the ruins. There was a distinct lack of blame, of anger in his tone, and Evelyn was confused again. She didn't have the energy to analyze it, so she merely waited. After a beat, Varric continued. "Cassandra followed Chuckles out into the woods. Idiot ran off, bolted down that ledge without his pack or staff." He hummed, his tone a little dark, and the hand on the back of Evelyn's head drew her a little tighter against his shoulder and chest. "The Seeker will keep him safe, which is too bad. Almost wish he could get a touch of frostbite for his troubles."

When Evelyn moved to rise, Varric loosened his hold on her. He let his hand slide to her shoulder and, as she sat up, let it slide down her arm and took her hand in his. Her arm trembled with force, as did her fingers between his, but Evelyn was too tired to draw away and too weary to still her limb. Varric regarded her arm sadly, shifted his hand over hers, and tucked both between their legs, out of sight. When he looked back up at her, he seemed calm. Evelyn wasn't sure how to read his expression, his actions, and she didn't try. A small frown pulled at his face, apologetic and knowing, and he squeezed her trembling hand.

"So, I'm going to take a wild guess and say _this_ is why you like the cold so much." There was no accusation in his tone, no anger, and Evelyn opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head. "No, you don't have to."

He took a deep breath and his thumb brushed across her shaking knuckles with the same tenderness it had against her neck.

"I don't know what Chuckles wanted to talk to you about, or why he blew out of here like he had a dragon on his heels, and you don't have to tell me," Varric said, slowly, comfortably, and it was all Evelyn could do to listen to him. He didn't know? "We all have things we need to stay private, I get that. 'Pisses me off that Mr. Personality was the one who tried to help you deal with it, whatever it was--and talk about botching a job, it'll take divine intervention to keep me from breaking his sanctimonious elfy jaw when the Seeker finally drags him back--. _Right_ , sorry, this isn't about anger."

"Varric," Evelyn tried, but he squeezed her hand again and she fell silent.

"I'm not pissed off. _We weren't_ pissed off," he explained firmly and looked out into the darkness of the hall. Without the rift pressing up against the veil, the darkness was mundane and impenetrable. Evelyn couldn't even remember what the far wall looked like. "We were terrified."

Varric let out a short, humorless laugh and raked his free hand through his hair. It fell into its standard arrangement, after a fashion, but the strands that had fallen free of the leather loop refused to stay.

"You'd think we'd be used to you, by now, right? The silent staring, watching the distance, that sort of thing," Varric explained. "I don't think you've ever spent less than a full minute thinking up a reply, and that's fine, it's just how you are...but yesterday was... _freaky_."

"What?" Evelyn asked, softly, and Varric took a short breath as he looked back at her. There was still no anger in his face, in his voice, and Evelyn was beyond relieved.

"You kept staring at the ruins, like you knew where they were without the map, and all day you went back and forth, one minute happy as a little kid, then stone still and somber. We finally get up here and it's like you already know the place. You're walking into darkness and suddenly there's stairs. You're three steps ahead of the light and you never tripped once. You took a spill in a creek in full daylight, but suddenly you can walk in a pitch-dark tomb with the grace of an empress? We get to... _here_...and it's like there's demons breathing down our necks, even I can feel the Fade, but you just...kept going. Before anyone could stop you, you just walk into the darkness, and all we hear are footsteps with no answer."

Varric seemed shaken as he told her this story, as he recounted the events before the rift, and Evelyn paid him all of her attention. His distress was palpable, albeit soothed by time, and she felt for him. She wanted to apologize to him, again, but interrupting seemed like a travesty. Instead, she waited and watched him as he gathered himself and found his words again. He sighed and settled his free hand in his lap as he continued.

"That voice, when you told us to draw our weapons," Varric began, sounding for all the world like a man who'd seen a ghost. He had no words for the sound of her voice and, after a pause, moved to his next thought, "Then the world went crazy and we were back to normal, just for a minute. The whole thing felt like a trap and we'd just walked straight into it. When you collapsed, you were in a trance. Demons everywhere and you didn't respond to anything, not shouting, not shaking, nothing...and then you passed out, convulsing and bleeding from the mouth...I-- _We_ didn't know what to think.

"Cassandra and I," Varric's voice caught here, snagged on a note of something sad, something akin to shame, but he plowed ahead. "We thought you were possessed, maybe. This rift was big, strange, and we'd never seen you...behave like that. Solas volunteered to find you in the Fade, to see if you were alone up there, or if something else was trying to move in and take over that skull of yours, but that went south real fast. He started sweating and shaking, making weird, pained noises, and the Seeker and I...we had to be ready."

"Cassandra was ready to kill me if I was possessed," Evelyn said, her voice less affected than Varric expected it to be. His look was apologetic but Evelyn's small, understanding smile made it all the more distressed. "It's okay, Varric."

"Like hell it is," Varric snapped, utterly offended by her indifference. "I held you down and she...she was going to have to kill you...and then probably Chuckles..." His anger drained from him and Varric took a slow breath as he leaned against her side. "It's not okay...that...that wasn't okay." 

Evelyn leaned against him, her hand shaking in his, and tried to find words. Varric's warmth crept into her side and, for once, she was entirely glad for it. It was solid, welcoming, and comfortable against her. Gradually his warmth pushed some of her terror away. Varric didn't know, he wouldn't leave...but Solas would. Solas would tell Cassandra and she...she would tell Varric. Evelyn gripped his hand tightly, her grip desperate despite trembling fingers, and Varric looked at her curiously. She owed him the truth, just as she'd owed Solas, but just as their anger and hurt were different, the truth she gave him needed to be different, explained differently for him. Varric was, simultaneously, easier and more difficult than Solas, and the truth he needed was more bare, more personal. Unlike with Solas, she didn't need to fight to find it, it was right there in front of her, but it was much, much harder to say.

"Solas found me in my nightmare," Evelyn explained, her voice almost void of inflection. She swallowed and steeled herself. When she continued, it was with a meter that spoke of momentum, as though she were building it up and hoping it would maintain her. "The one I've had every night since the Conclave. He tried to...help, to save me, and had to watch as the anchor tore me in two. He felt it, felt the pain in my arm, my fear, the dreams, and I'm not sure he will forgive me for lying to him...for lying to all of you." She blinked, heavily, wearily, and looked down at their legs. With her hand hidden from sight it actually was easier to consider it. "I'm sorry I frightened you, Varric. This rift was...deep. The pain was distracting...horrifying...and I couldn't think clearly until it was closed."

Varric had gone still beside her, much as Solas had frozen as he stared, and Evelyn wearily waited for his reaction. She felt him shift, felt the angle of him move against her arm, and loosened her hold on his fingers. If he wanted to draw away, she wouldn't stop him...but he didn't. She started with surprise when Varric's free hand touched the side of her jaw. When he lifted her head and forced her gaze up to his again, he looked frustrated and shocked but, more than anything, he looked sad. His hand pressed against her cheek and he guided her head down, so he could press his cheek against hers, so he could wrap his arm around her neck and shoulders, and Evelyn bent easily to his wishes.

" _Goddamn it, Sunshine,_ " Varric cursed softly, with the reverence of a prayer. His breath warm against her face. "Don't lie to me again, okay?"

"Okay," Evelyn repeated and silence settled over them.


	4. Hope Fades

When the fire burned low, reduced to nothing but dull embers, Varric fed it with dried blood lotus and the barest drops from one of his grenades. The smell of the mixture was thick and disconcerting, but it rose with the smoke, crowded the high ceiling, and Evelyn was able to forget it had ever been. The flame was renewed, built up to a respectable height again. It was redder than when she'd first seen it, but still golden, still real.

When he'd first stoked the fire, Varric had offered up a weak excuse while he bothered the small, but reasonable flame. He murmured blithely about veilfire burning cold, about how they should toss Solas's coat into the fire as fuel, about how it would serve the elf right, but his harshness was limited to words, and then only just. Without the others, he needed something to hold his attention, something to occupy his hands; at her best, Evelyn was never enough to distract him entirely and, as she was, she didn’t blame him for seeking something to busy himself, even if it was just the campfire.

Despite his complaints about it, the sound, the light, the heat, he left the veilfire brazier burning on the wall. If the veilfire bothered him, it was not enough to prevent him from relaxing, from settling into an easy slumber at her side, arms wrapped around her as hers wrapped in kind. Evelyn found sleep far more slowly than Varric; she wasn't eager to close her eyes, nor to walk the Black City again. Varric caught her, awake and staring at the far wall, at least twice during the night. He didn't reprimand her, didn't speak at all, but his hands would try to lull her to sleep before he succumbed, himself.

Eventually, with her head on his lap and his thumb stroking her jaw, she managed to close her eyes without apprehension.

She was too weary to fight it, too weary to resist the sinking tug of sleep, and she fell into it before she realized what was happening. There was a strange pull, a heady lurch that snagged her as she sank into unconsciousness again. It turned her stomach, dazed and rattled her, but the discomfort was passing. When the sensation faded she felt dizzy, unable to regain her equilibrium, but...for a blessed moment, _nothing hurt_. That blessed moment stretched on, and on, and on, and she stumbled in the darkness. Though the ground swayed, nothing rose to meet her, and the longer she stared into the black, the less foreboding it became. 

Was this some fresh torment? Some new tangle in the Fade that the anchor had snagged? It wasn't pulling her, didn't latch into the night and drag her along--it felt almost...unhinged, like it had disconnected from the distance and, in doing so, left her adrift in the endless abyss. Compared to the agony, the terror, the corruption of the Black City, this was a gift. No, it was more than that, this was a blessing. Evelyn could have sobbed, would have, if she were anywhere real. Instead, she relaxed, for the first time in long, agonizing months and sank into the farthest depths of sleep. She passed beyond dreams, beyond thought and feeling and for long, wondrous hours she knew no pain.

When Evelyn finally stirred, when her slumber gave way to waking, and she rose up through the depths to surface, it was sensation that returned to her first. Just as it had when she awoke on the floor of her cell, the first thought, bright in her mind, was instantly tainted by the pain of the anchor. She'd fought it for so long, trained herself to it so well, that a grimace sufficed in place of a scream. Adrenaline pushed the remainders of sleep from her mind and Evelyn opened her eyes to find the world bright and moving--she was moving? She had never been a deep sleeper, not before the anchor and certainly not after it, but as she rose groggily to waking, she found herself propped against someone's back, arms draped over their shoulders and legs dangling well above the ground. They carried her like a heavy sack or an exhausted child, towing her limp, dead-weight with casual ease as they hiked down the steep mountainside. Evelyn blinked blearily and found, with little surprise, that she'd been draped across Cassandra.

She relished a moment of comfortable warmth, a pang of deep appreciation for the Seeker, before she remembered that Cassandra had gone after Solas. Solas who had fled her in disgust. She lifted her head, tried to find Varric, to steel herself with his presence, but her motion was noticed before she could locate him.

"Awake at last, I see." She went rigid against Cassandra’s back as she heard Solas's voice at her side. It was not unkind, not laced with anger, but the memory of his ire was all too fresh.

The Seeker's stride slowed, gently, but she didn't come to a stop, and she made no offer to let Evelyn down. It took effort, her neck was stiff after such heavy sleep, pinched from the odd angle it had rested in, but Evelyn turned her head and faced Solas. Any dread that had formed, tight and heavy in her chest, faded instantly as she saw him. 

He was standing close, walking as near to Cassandra's hip as was possible, and didn't seem eager to move away. His soft smile was disarming, but not half so much so as the bruise that bloomed over the bridge of his nose or the elfroot poultice smeared across the cut beneath his eye. To see him so obviously disheveled was so unusual--she didn’t take joy in his injuries but they were an oddity and sapped her attention accordingly. It took a moment for Evelyn to realize that he didn't have his staff in hand. It was a strange sort of absence. 

She stared at the space where his weapon should have been and, eventually, she realized Cassandra held it. The Seeker had it threaded beneath her thighs and gripped it on either side. It must have made balancing Evelyn against her back far easier...but to see the relic reduced to little more than a bench, that too was beyond strange. Confusion must have made its way onto her face as she stared because, without prompting, Solas continued speaking.

"You didn't rouse when we arrived at dawn," Solas explained and there was a twinge of something, remorse, regret, perhaps hesitance, that danced across his face. "You slept so deeply, it seemed unkind to wake you. I offered to carry you but...Varric and Cassandra both thought it best that she did."

"You were bleeding from the face at the time, Solas," Cassandra reminded him, her tone neutral, as though she were talking about weather or a particularly boring excerpt from the Canticles. Her grip shifted and Evelyn with it. "Besides, I am easily the stronger of the two of us."

"I told her I'd break his jaw; I still think he got off pretty light," Varric called back. He was walking ahead of them, a position he disliked and rarely occupied, and his absence confused her all the more. Evelyn lifted her head, tried to look over Cassandra's shoulder and see him, but Solas caught her attention before she could.

"I have already begged both the Seeker's and Varric's forgiveness," Solas told her quietly as they walked. Cassandra ignored them, insofar as a person in her position could. Varric did not do him the courtesy of pretending and huffed irritably as Solas paused. Solas ignored him, though his eyes did flick downward briefly before they rose again to meet hers. "But it is your forgiveness I should seek, a fact both of our companions reminded me of, in no uncertain terms."

"He means I shouted it at him right before I punched him in the face."

Solas's smile was thin, but it had the feeling of something self-deprecating, something rueful; he didn't seem to hold any grudge against Varric. He didn’t seem angry at all, in fact, and that was a small blessing.

The narrow path flared outward, broke away into an expanse of gentle hills and distant cliffs, and they reached a grassy vista. Whatever road they'd chosen to take down the mountain was very different from the one they'd taken up...or else she'd been asleep for quite a while longer than she'd guessed. Once they reached the open space, Cassandra stopped and knelt. Evelyn's limbs felt heavy, leaden, but they were rested in a way they hadn't been in a very long time. She stood and Cassandra rose after her, rolling her shoulders as she did. She cast a fond look at Evelyn, returned Solas's staff, and let a long, heavy stare linger on him before she moved away. Varric and she did not stray far, not this time, and Solas didn't seem to begrudge them their caution. 

He cast a last, brief glance at Cassandra and, with a reluctance he hadn't shown as they walked, turned his attention back to Evelyn. There was a sadness on his face that was hard to define. When he spoke, it was very softly, almost intimately, as though they weren't being listened to, as though gentleness now could undo his harsh reactions before.

"You are stronger than I ever imagined, Inquisitor," Solas said, just louder than a whisper. "To discover what haunts you...what harm it does you...to have gone so long without knowing, without seeing it..." Solas exhaled slowly as he gathered his thoughts. 

The seriousness of the conversation, of his scattered admission, was nearly tangible as he began but, despite his intentions and his eloquence, he had been punched in the face only a few hours ago. His nose made a slight, high whistle as he exhaled, instantly unraveling any gravity his comments would have otherwise held. Evelyn caught the reflexive laugh as it tried to leave her throat and, startled by her stifled amusement, Solas nearly smiled. The weight lifted off them, shifted, and his sorrow became a different sort of concern. 

"My blindness shames me, Inquisitor; my flight was inexcusable. I can only beg your forgiveness, as well, and hope that I was able to grant you some measure of peace last night."

"That was you?" Evelyn asked, her tone torn between shock and unease. Solas looked down, looked away as he inclined his head, well aware of the boundary he'd crossed, broken apart, and crossed again. She never wanted to be angry with him, she never had been, and while his intrusion made her deeply uncomfortable, she couldn't muster any feeling beyond relief. The threat of living the rest of her life with only the memory of his revulsion, of his pale face and silent exit was too terrible to compare. 

Anger, in the face of reconciliation, was little more than a waste. 

"I slept soundly, Solas." She extended a hand and brushed her fingers against his, where they gripped his staff to still themselves. "Thank you."

"Please, _Vhenan ara_ ," Solas said quickly, all but chasing her words away, snuffing out her gratitude before he could hear it, "do not thank me. I have done too much and too little all at once."

Solas didn't look at her as she settled her hand on his.

"You did what you could, Solas," Evelyn assured him, her tone mirroring the same quiet voice he'd used to ask forgiveness. He closed his eyes as she spoke, his brow pinching as he fought not to turn away from her. "I don't blame you."

Something in Solas's expression broke, then, and he looked at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, like a little boy waiting for harsh reprisal. He was terrified, bewildered, and adrift, a man completely overcome by regret. Evelyn forgave him all his tresspasses in that instant; there was no apology, no combination of elegant words and supplication that could have explained him better than that single expression. There was nothing that could have laid him more bare before her. He opened his mouth, just slightly, but he had no words for her. 

She shifted her hand, moved it from his and traced her fingers gently across the sharp rise of his cheek. The skin was tender and hot around his eye and she was careful not to hurt him as she smoothed the elfroot mixture across his cut. She rarely took these liberties, her touch was selfish and her companions already gave her too much, but Solas turned, just slightly, into the press of her fingers and she was glad she’d done it. His jaw flexed as her fingertips lighted against his face and he swallowed some quiet sound, some note that was less than a thought, and resigned himself to simply staring at her. The smile she offered him was kind and it persisted, even as she let her fingers fall away.

There was a hopeful sort of longing in his face, then, as he stood breathless and fixated on her. She’d seen him shatter twice and the only similarities either instance shared were topical. He did himself disservice and, as he pieced himself together, Evelyn wanted little more than to soothe his distress.

"That you slowed it so much was nothing short of a miracle," Evelyn told him simply. It was little more than a quiet praise, a fact whispered reverently as she stared into his clear, frightened eyes, and she believed it to the depths of her soul. 

To what was left of her soul. 

When she'd awoken in that cell, chained to the floor in the darkness, the mark had burned her flesh like flame catching dry straw. As they approached the Breach, each step tossed oil on the flame, drove it higher, fanned it hotter. That she still had an arm when they reached that first rift, that was nothing shy of divine providence. That she still woke from her dreams, that they hadn’t claimed her mind or her body, despite how they ailed her, was a testament to his skills. Her appreciation was utterly sincere, the words intended for him alone, to bring him up from where he’d fallen, but she felt something shift in the air once she'd said it.

Solas's expression changed, his sorrow and his regret were displaced by a thought, they caught on some fleeting curiosity, and he leaned toward her, absorbing what little space remained. For as lost as he'd seemed a moment ago, now he seemed almost disoriented, as though he'd found his footing and lost it again, and confusion laced every line in his face. His mouth opened and she could almost feel him draw a sharp breath, question hovering at the tip of his tongue, but he was interrupted before he even began. Cassandra's voice was the one that cut through their moment, as clear and precise as a blade, and Evelyn turned to face her before she registered the Seeker's words.

"What do you mean 'slowed'?" 

Evelyn's breath caught in her throat as she met Cassandra's eyes. For as strong as the Seeker was, as righteous, as unyielding, there were moments where she wore her expressions for all to see. They sat boldly on her face, simple and with an honesty that was hard to comprehend, and they never failed to humble those around her. Those moments, when her heart sat so near the surface, when her smiles were easy, her sorrows obvious, and her care overwhelming, those were moments that they all cherished. By some fortune, those moments had grown more frequent as they had all become closer, and Evelyn valued them...but she hadn’t expected such honesty to cut through her, now, and she was staggered as she was confronted with it.

Now, standing no more than three arms’ lengths from her, her back bathed in sunlight, Cassandra wore a look of quiet panic, of worry, and Evelyn had no words to comfort her. At first, Cassandra’s question didn’t make sense, the disconnect from her conversation with Solas had been too jarring to assume the topic was unchanged. Unfortunately, with rising dread, Evelyn pieced the moments together. She hadn't realized it, as she quietly praised Solas, as she tried to soothe his conscience, but she'd said too much. In trying to put Solas back together, to heal whatever hurt she'd caused, however indirectly, she'd let something very important slip. As Cassandra stared at her, as Varric looked on, stock-still with shock, she realized her error.

Her eyes listed from Cassandra to Varric. How recent was her promise to him? Her decision not to lie? Her oath, steeped in gratitude, in the gift of his regard, wasn’t a day old and already she teetered on the brink of breaking it. She hadn't lied again, not yet, but this was a truth they didn't know.

This was a truth she didn’t want them to know. Not now. 

Not yet.

She lacked Varric’s skill with words, it was why her conversation with Solas had gone so terribly wrong, why she'd clung to Varric so desperately, and she had no idea how to explain this to Cassandra. Her failings with language, particularly in times like this, were a terrible, looming presence. If she were alone with Cassandra, if they weren’t bracketed on either side by Varric, who felt more keenly than her, who saw her facades and forgave or dismissed them, or Solas, who was too clever, too quick and bold with his knowledge and words, she might have spared the Seeker this. She wouldn’t have lied, no, not anymore, but there was a harshness in this truth that Evelyn didn’t have the time or the cleverness to soften.

More than anything, though, she didn’t want to speak it aloud. To say it out loud, to _hear it_ and know that it was said, that it was true, was far too much. Even if the Seeker needed that answer, to quell the panic that rose in her, to calm her heart or her mind, Evelyn wasn't capable of giving it. She was too weak to say it, too afraid, as though speaking the words would hasten her fate. She didn’t have time, though, to find another turn of phrase, to choose something more timid that spared both of them this impact. Her time ran out as she stared and, as she knew it would happen, one of the other two found the answer in the silence.

Solas was too brilliant, too quick to miss the meaning in her admission. Evelyn had hoped it would be Varric who caught it, who softened the blow, but even when he was addled and uncertain, Solas was the most clever of them. Time dragged onward, uncomfortable and hitching, once Solas sucked in his sharp breath. After a length of silence, while Evelyn still struggled, her eyes locked on Cassandra’s, Solas answered for her.

"The mark is killing you." 

The words were spoken with dreadful certainty; it was a simple fact, not unlike the ones she’d used to comfort him. Evelyn recoiled from the statement, slammed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw as she tried to unhear them. There was nothing for it, though, and no denial or half-truth would make that statement more palatable...or less true. Evelyn felt a bitter cold creep down her spine as those words faded, lost to the soft sighing of grass, the distant sounds of the mountains. 

When she opened her eyes again, Cassandra and Varric were staring at her, but she didn't understand their expressions. The components that made them up were each familiar, in their way, but the meaning they held composed? Evelyn had no idea. Their worry, their kindness, their anger, those she knew, but not these. They seemed...almost disbelieving, desperate, like if they hoped hard enough, Evelyn could make it untrue. 

They were strong; they had to know how this would end. Varric had long ago told her how he expected this to go. Cassandra was a realist, she had never promised Evelyn would live, had never expected it. She'd chosen them because they would understand. 

Maker, she hadn't intended to tell them so soon, or as abruptly as this, but they had to understand. Whether she spilled the truth and stumbled over her words, or orchestrated them with delicacy and a finite list of tasks, they had to understand. Evelyn wanted to plead with them, to beg them to take this in stride, to know what had to be done, but she had already traded too freely in their emotions. She manipulated them to her own ends so often, so very often, to try and sway this reaction...that was truly cruel, truly evil, and she owed them more than that. She schooled her face into a careful, neutral arrangement and steeled herself.

"I can feel it," Evelyn confirmed, calmly, far too calmly for her companions, and inclined her head. Cassandra was aghast and Varric was no better. She didn’t turn to see Solas; she knew he had already made these jumps, leaped through her simple logic like a hare through bramble. "Every day...it takes a little more from me.” Evelyn swallowed around the hard lump in her throat. “Eventually, if I let it, it will take everything."

"If you let it?" Cassandra demanded, immediately, and crowded Evelyn’s words as she did her enemies, her voice high and flustered. She was torn, split evenly between worry and hope. Her expression and stance settled in the middle, took up something like frustration, and the confluence of emotion rolled off of her in waves.

"I won't let it," Evelyn assured her gently, tried to calm the Seeker, to reduce her hurt, but her words fell on deaf ears.

"And just how do you plan on stopping it?" Varric demanded and his tone snagged on some piece of hidden punctuation. He was eager to hear a plan, any plan, to watch her weave a tale and assign a mission. He wanted her to spell this out, to start a new story, a heroic adventure within their tale, but she couldn’t. This was always doomed to be a tragedy, and Evelyn lacked his talent for words; she couldn’t rewrite it if she wanted to. 

Evelyn was silent as Varric stared at her, as he waited in silent desperation for his answer, and the tension between the four of them loomed, smothering and palpable. Her stomach twisted as time stretched on, as she tried to say it, but the words died in her throat. Fear stole her voice, made her tremble, and Evelyn clenched her left hand hard. Behind her, Solas was deathly still, she heard the grip creak as his hands tensed on his staff, she could feel his horror but it was distant, as though he’d drifted far enough that he could see the whole span of their story. 

Once again, he was the one who answered for her. He was her voice when her own failed.

"By taking her life...before it can."

Cassandra and Varric paled as they stared at her, as they tried to put this all together. Behind her, Solas was stiff and unyielding, frozen in the depths of his realization. Evelyn stared at them, her expression unchanged, and tried to find her words, to find any words, to say anything that might drive this conversation away. 

They would understand, she knew it. The only explanations she needed, then, the only truths that she really had to share, were the ones that would help them. These were easier, at least at first, because they lived in her like a mantra, a visible goal beyond which...beyond which...what?

A reward awaited her?

The sentiment was empty in a truly staggering way; it was desolate, cruel, and Evelyn pushed it aside as fear climbed her limbs.

"Once my duties are done,” she started, forced the words to come and found them just as hollow, as empty as the promise of paradise, of salvation, “when Corypheus is dead...when the rifts have all been closed...I--" 

Her words didn't settle either the warrior or the rogue, not as she spoke them, nor when they died on her tongue. When Evelyn lifted her hands and motioned for calm, Cassandra snapped. The Seeker was livid, red crept across her face as anger took her, and she advanced toward Evelyn.

"Is this why? Why you track the rifts so carefully? Why we close them before all else? Why every day you ask me to count them out for you?" Her voice rose as she spoke, and her last question echoed off the mountainside, thunderous and foreboding as her expression. “You are keeping track of your death!?”

"Seeker," Varric said, sharply, angrily, and Cassandra rounded on him. He was utterly lost, his expression painted across his face for all to see, and it was immediately clear that redirecting her anger was his whole intent. He was silent a moment, visibly braced himself, and continued in a much quieter, much calmer voice, "Of course it is."

The fight drained out of Cassandra as Varric confirmed her suspicions, as he pointed out just how obvious, how painfully right they were. She paled and, to Evelyn's shock, her shoulders sagged. A look of deep sympathy settled on Varric's face and he swallowed hard before turning his attention back to Evelyn and Solas. Varric knew what inevitability looked like, he'd seen it in all their lives, in the Inquisition, long before they'd held anything resembling clout. He knew that death, impending death, wasn't something easily shirked and, though it pained him, he seemed too shocked to do anything but accept her fate. Evelyn lamented his hurt, but he _understood._

"That the whole truth, Sunshine?" Varric's question required an answer, but his expression, the tired, glassy quality in his eyes, said that he didn't want one. More than anything he wanted her to stay silent. Whether it was the full truth or not, it didn't matter, because Evelyn wasn't given the chance to answer him. Cassandra, shoulders trembling, drew herself up and crushed this conversation firmly beneath her heel.

" _No_ ," she all but shouted. Her shoulders squared, hard and sharp, as she turned on Evelyn, on Solas. Her gaze was steely and locked past Evelyn's head, on the mage behind her. When she narrowed her eyes, a deathly stillness settled over them all. "Solas.” His name was a command, all but barked, and Evelyn felt him stand taller. “We will find a solution to this. The anchor will be removed."

A high dragon would have quailed at the sight of Cassandra Pentaghast so sure, so steeled and authoritative. Cassandra was a force of divine will and, more than ever, Evelyn could see the hand of the Maker bracing her. She was unbent, unbowed, and would stand tall against all the darkness of the world, unto the very end of time. How Evelyn found the strength to cut her off, to shout at Cassandra, was beyond comprehension. Perhaps, she realized with a heavy heart, it was because she didn't fear Cassandra. 

She couldn't fear Cassandra because she knew the kindness that lingered behind her strength.

"No," Evelyn snapped furiously, her gentle, neutral demeanor gone, and drew the attention of all of her companions. She stepped away, moved from where she was until she could look at the three of them at once. It was not a retreat, but the steel in her stance was a poor replica of the Seeker's. It would not survive an onslaught if they unleashed one. "I will not remove the anchor."

"It's _killing you_ ," Varric shouted, his investment in the situation renewed. He’d been drawn into the Seeker's absolute refusal to accept Evelyn’s fate. He was fond of strong female heroes, of hopeless odds, he always had been.

"If we can find a way, surely--" Solas tried to remain calm, but there was an edge of pleading to his tone, a desperate urgency she didn't understand.

"I will not remove it," Evelyn repeated, sharply. “It is too dangerous, it’s a risk _I cannot take_.”

"Then we will stop it," Cassandra nearly interrupted, obstinate and livid. She towered over Evelyn, then, in stature and presence, her determination was a sound that would strike terror into kings, into the darkness itself. Evelyn didn’t have the strength to doubt her. "We will destroy it in your hand if we must."

Evelyn had no words for that. 

Even considering the possibility had been beyond her.

The anchor was the only thing that could close the rifts; the anchor was the key to halting Corypheus. Destroying it was something that came after the end, something she had to do to save the world. It was her gift to Thedas. The idea that Cassandra could strip that responsibility, that burden from her, that the Seeker could find a way to shatter the anchor and spare her life...Evelyn couldn't even process it. 

Without her faith, she'd had only her suffering to define herself, without her suffering, what was left of her but a husk? ...and yet, Evelyn was a coward. She was willing, even eager to destroy the anchor, to prevent its corruption from spreading, but… _Maker_ , she didn't want to die. She was terrified of death, of what came beyond, of what would come for her if she wore the anchor to her grave. If she could be spared that fate, even if it rendered her tiny and meaningless again, would she turn it down?

The answer came to her unbidden, and with such speed that it shamed her.

_No._

Her cheeks burned as Cassandra's gaze bore into hers and, after a long silence, Evelyn inclined her head. She was weak, she was frightened, and if she were given the choice, she would flee from the noblest deed of her life. She would let the strong, the remarkable save her and she would revel in her obscurity, leaving nothing but darkness as her legacy. She would cower from death, even as the Inquisitor, even as the Herald, if she were given the chance.

She knew that now and it would haunt her.

"If you can find a way to destroy the anchor, utterly and completely, I will submit to it." Her voice was measured, metered, and empty as she agreed to Cassandra’s implicit demand. If her companions heard the resounding loss in her tone, the shame, they mistook it for something else, something grander or more clever.

All at once, Cassandra's expression gentled and the weighty tension that ran between them broke. A deep, brittle discomfort settled in place of their anger and hurt, but the rage, the worst of the sorrow had all but passed. At least, Evelyn thought it had, and she took the determined nod of the Seeker as the end of the conversation. 

As they traveled back to Skyhold, Cassandra tried to instill hope in her, as did Varric, but Evelyn didn't appreciate their efforts. 

There was some appeal in hopelessness, as ridiculous as it sounded. If she had hope, there was something new, something precious that her dreams could rip away from her. Her faith had been spent all too easily, burned to nothing by the anchor, and the lack of it left her listless and scared and alone. Hope was so much more fragile than faith, it would be crushed beneath the weight of the anchor, devoured by the flames as easily and completely as falling snow. It would be little more than a spark in the darkness, in the end, and she would be left with the memory of it glittering and nothing else. 

Lacking hope was not nearly so terrible as losing it.


	5. Beneath the Banners

In Skyhold, everything was different, they were different. It had been the same way in Haven, after a fashion, but the nature of their relationships, of their behavior, hadn't truly solidified until they reached the fortress that cradled the sky. 

Whatever ease settled in Evelyn as they trekked the wilds of Thedas, whatever calm bound them together, in both proximity and kindness, vanished as the stone walls of Skyhold rose up around them. Small smiles and delicate gestures were lost to the flapping of banners and the ever rising din of the faithful, of the pilgrims, of the Inquisition's troops. When they passed through the outer gates the change was instant. All at once, a vague, insurmountable distance yawned between them as they crossed the bridge into Skyhold. It stretched with each breath, long and ephemeral, and pushed them apart faster than mere steps could carry them. When they passed beneath the gatehouse, into the bailey, the silent, emotional shift had become a gulfing abyss. Their closeness, the care that bound them together and defied proper description, was suddenly as far off and intangible as the horizon. 

It seemed strange, this time, as the trappings of Skyhold silently parted them. It wasn't unusual, this degree of separation; it was strange only because it wasn't strange at all. This happened every time they returned, the inevitable conclusion that followed each mission, each quest across some stretch of Thedas. They would lose some quiet part of themselves as the company of others pressed in around them. The shift, the loss, the exchange had always gone unnoticed before. It had been an understanding that wasn't conscious; it was something that simply happened as they retired to their corners of the fortress and the hard separations of their individual lives. This time, though, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas seemed disquieted, almost pained as they recognized it. 

Perhaps it was their new knowledge that made them uneasy.

Evelyn had long ago accepted the fact that the pain of the anchor, her grief, and her fear would always be with her. The inevitability of her mortality permeated all aspects of her life; every detail within it was a reminder that it would end soon. There was no shock in how she behaved within Skyhold, of how she bent and yielded to the needs of the fortress and those inside it. Unfortunately, until now, her companions hadn't realized how sharply Evelyn segmented her life. When she was in Skyhold, more than she ever had been in Haven, she was a symbol, she was separate from herself, from her own problems. She wasn't Evelyn here and she felt their eyes burning against her back as they watched her, as they watched how she changed. Any comfort, any explanation she could provide would be little more than an excuse. Excuses would lessen the divinity of the Herald of Andraste, so Evelyn provided none.

When they arrived in the courtyard, Evelyn was the Inquisitor. Her gait smoothed, her posture drew straight, and her countenance settled in a place of noble placidity. The change was imperceptible, or it had been once. There were none left living after the conclave, none who knew the subtle shift of her moods well enough to note the change that overcame her. Even to her companions, close and dear as they were, it had been little more than a curious quirk. Now, she had no doubt that her vanity was as obvious as the sun in the sky; she could feel the way their eyes picked apart at her facade as she drew it over herself. Something impersonal, something deeply removed swept over her as she moved through the gates of the fortress. If her companions had expected her behavior to shift, to reflect the revelations they'd been privy to in the wilds, they were disappointed. She could afford no change in behavior, no newfound nearness...

...and she was a coward.

Their vehement denial, their sympathetic horror, and the half-hearted attempts at comfort they'd offered up were fragile and delicate. They knew too much, now, and Evelyn was terrified that anything more, any gentle nudge or slight inflection, might shatter their good will. They were remarkable, they were heroes, and if she let them see how diminished she truly was, let it affect how remarkable the Inquisitor had to be...well their confidence might not extend so far. It was selfish, it had always been, but she feared the loss of them too much to risk any deviation. She was consumed by the need to be careful, to maintain what balance she still had. 

She didn't look at any of them as she drew away and jogged toward the main hall.

In Skyhold, she was the Inquisitor. She was a hero. She was the Herald of Andraste and an object of Divine Will. 

She took the stairs as she always had, as she always intended to. This time, though, as her companions watched the Inquisitor take the stairs at a steady, commanding gait, it was as though they'd never watched her before. The motions were familiar, eerily so, and it was suddenly clear that she'd practiced them until they came easily, automatically. There was no tremor, no emotion in her as she crossed into the main hall. She was engulfed in the masquerade of silk and satin, the nobles and sycophants who played at shaping the world, who followed in her wake. They watched as the crowd parted for her, gave her a berth they wouldn't have granted anyone short of royalty, and closed up behind her in a wall of color and meaningless, selfish frivolity. 

All at once, as they stood in the courtyard, her companions finally understood. It was like they'd found the last piece of a cypher and, moment by moment, the world carded into place, gained meaning that should have been obvious, and the end result was positively sickening.

In Skyhold, the Inquisitor was a ghost. She moved through the world, along the paths that others walked, but she was not a person; she was a shade, a symbol, and little else. The hurt, the tenderness, the abrupt and quiet touches of joy that followed them in the wilderness were wiped away, blotted out by the flying standards of the Inquisition, by the meaning and purpose they conveyed. They had, all of them, gone so long without seeing the way this place ground her down, the way it wearied and diminished her, that the realization was stark and jarring. 

Now that they understood what this place was, what it did, it was all they _could_ see.

Around them, boys ran messages from the quartermaster to the merchants, to the stables. The poorest pilgrims, weary travelers, and war-haggard refugees cluttered the courtyard. They gathered, spoke in reverent voices and retold tales of deeds the Inquisition had done, of deeds they hadn't, of the Fade and Andraste, and of the Herald herself. Above them, in the upper courtyard, the sounds of Cullen's troops clashing steel, learning their paces, resounded against the stone. If they paused their sparring long enough, a snatch of song, brief and upbeat, drifted down from the tavern. Abruptly this place felt senseless, unwelcoming, even empty...it was so banal, so obliviously lively here, that words failed them. The eagerness and devotion that permeated the air, that had once nourished their spirits, that had uplifted them and gave them hope, felt stifling and heavy.

The realization that the morale of this place had been purchased with Evelyn's suffering was nearly unbearable.

"Are we going to talk about this?" Varric asked in a harsh whisper. The hitch of darkness in his tone was a welcome relief from the exuberance of the courtyard.

"Not here," Cassandra responded, perhaps more firmly than she'd intended, and her eyes chased shadows as she scanned the rise of the castle. Her shoulders were drawn, her stance spoke of combat and, already, her wariness drew whispers and stares from those who meandered in the sunshine. She regarded them like obstacles, eyes glancing across smiling faces and merchants as though they were wisps gathered around the edge of a battlefield. Beside her, Solas and Varric were no better; all three seemed as though they would be more comfortable carrying their weapons than simply standing about empty-handed. 

Cassandra considered Skyhold as she would a battlefield. The tower was the most secret, the most private, but this was far too new a matter, the situation was far too delicate to risk piquing Leliana's interest. The armory was not private, not by any stretch, and the Rotunda was an echo chamber to half of Skyhold. They could not retire to somewhere familiar and, oddly, there was some comfort in that limitation. None of them shared space, not here, and this was a conversation that demanded equal footing. They required somewhere new, a place where no one of them felt more comfortable or uncomfortable than the others. Cassandra spent another moment in thought before she moved. Wordlessly, Varric and Solas followed after her.

The path they cut through the courtyard was far too direct, too obvious. They drew attention, as they had at the gates, and the realization had all three on edge. They climbed the steps, ascended to the upper courtyard, and cut through the crowds of scouts and recruits. Unlike the Inquisitor, they were offered no reverent space. No distance spawned around them, nobody gaped silently, nor whispered prayers as they moved, and Cassandra's expression drew tight and angry as they all but stalked across the grass to the prison doors. The attendant started when she saw them but left hurriedly as the Seeker dismissed her. The inner cells were empty, now, and they were alone, but Cassandra continued forward until they were in the rubble of the lower cells, staring at the dizzy fall that awaited anyone who walked carelessly through this room. 

The wind whipped beneath them, whistling as it slid across stone, and drowned out the sounds of laughter, of song and standards as they fluttered against the sky. Thick, dead stone lined the space around them, here, and bars of bent iron hung soundlessly in the cold. This was the very edge of the fortress, the place where it fell apart against the mountain, where ancient stones and designs had worn away to nothing in the face of nature and time. Only in this meaningless place could they begin to relax, only with the whistling threat of death and the overwhelming distance below them could they start to find peace.

The quiet, the reprieve from joy and prayer, was a great relief to each of them and they savored it for a few moments. 

Nobody would hear them in this place; even Leliana refused to risk carving out a path to spy on this corner of Skyhold, it was too unstable, too isolated. Unfortunately, now that they had their privacy, now that they were removed from the miasma of hope and faith that choked the air of Skyhold, the frustration that drove them here felt very distant. It was hard to hang on to, just as it was hard to recall the nature of their relationship while they rested in the fortress. They felt, each of them, as though they were trying to peer at both sides of a coin at once and the duality of the situation. That there even was a duality to overcome was beyond frustrating.

How had they fallen into this separation so easily? How had it gone without notice?

Cassandra turned, her expression hard and irritated, and looked at Varric and Solas. The wind whipped around their ankles, sucked at the still air between the cells, and undercut the silence. Moments passed as she searched for words, to encompass all the minutiae they had just been made aware of, to sum up how unacceptable this was, but she found none. Cassandra's expression softened, weakened by worry and grief, caught between the tense revulsion that Skyhold inspired now and the feeling of security, of belonging it held before. Fortunately, whatever steel she lacked now, whatever firmness left her as she stared at the path ahead of them, Solas and Varric were able to compensate. As her expression faltered, Solas's grew hard. His grip was tight, knuckles white and drawn, as he twisted his staff at his side.

When he spoke, the stones around them seemed primed for it. There was stability in it and it gradually seeped into them.

"Destroying the anchor without removing it will be difficult," Solas said, his voice calm and sure in a way none of them felt. "No magic I know can accomplish it, not without..." He braced himself, his lips a tight line, his tone impersonal, factual, efficient. "Not without destroying the vessel in the process." He didn't let the sentiment, the actual meaning of his words linger, and chased them with another thought as quickly as he could: "But, loathe as I am to admit it, the world has much magic I do not know, and many disciplines that might be bent to our purpose. This is to say nothing of artifacts, of medicine, or of technology." 

Cassandra listened to him, attentive as she always was, but her drive began fading at once. Solas spoke with confidence but the meaning in his words was not subtle. Anything might undo the anchor, or nothing would. His list, the possibilities he included, were so numerous that they encompassed the whole of the world. There was no end and no beginning to what needed to be sought out. It was beyond daunting, this task, and Cassandra felt as though she were peering into the Breach again. She could make no comment on this, the scope was beyond her; she would undertake this quest no matter how hopeless it was, it was impossible to refuse. Varric, thankfully, was the voice of the obvious when Cassandra failed, and he submitted his opinion before either of them had the chance to solicit it.

"Oh good, I'm sure we can get right on that," Varric said, a heavy dose of exasperation in his tone. It was satisfying to hear him, if only because he expressed his frustration so much more clearly than either the mage or the warrior could. "On the plus side, we can rule out basically anything from Tevinter that's more than, what? A few hundred years old? If something that convenient was just kicking around, Corypheus would already have his gnarled darkspawn fingers in it."

Both Solas and Cassandra stared at Varric and their gazes lingered long after he'd finished speaking. His point was well made but, unfortunately, it was far more depressing than either of them could express. After a minute or so, Varric nearly snapped at them. A cold, hard _'What?'_ waited on his tongue, but he sagged before he could muster the energy to release it. Cassandra's hand found his shoulder silently, even if she said nothing.

"This will be no small task," Solas said gradually. His anger waned in the face of Varric's, gave to the dwarf and was replaced by a solitary sort of sadness. "...and, I fear, we may find ourselves faced with one or many difficult choices."

"There is nothing difficult about this, Solas, and nothing can make it so," Cassandra reprimanded and Solas looked at her almost sorrowfully. She held her ground, chin high and shoulders squared. 

"I pray you are right, Seeker," Solas replied, almost distantly, and Varric let out a frustrated sound.

"Okay, difficult and ominous things abound, we get it, _we know_ ," Varric all but ranted, his voice barely contained below a shout. "Hell, I'll even break out the five-sovereign words. This shit _portends_. Happy? Now let's stop pouting in a circle and get on with it."

"Varric is right," Cassandra agreed humorlessly. "Defining everything we might search is worthless. We must each decide where to begin. The longer we wait, the longer the Inquisitor suffers."

That statement, said with earnest urgency, spread through the group and eclipsed whatever mood had struck them last. Some facet of Evelyn's strength reflected in them, then, and each of them turned inward. They counted their options with speed, tore through the avenues they had saved, the resources that they had reserved for truly terrible times, for the worst of situations that could possibly beset them, and suddenly this task was very simple. Each of them knew precisely where to start, they knew the most valuable path they had available to them, and the daunting nature of their task was greatly diminished. They would burn through their own resources, find solutions as only they could, and if something viable didn't present itself they would move on. They would expend each asset they held until there was nothing left. ...And if something did appear, some glimmer of possibility in a wasteland of nothingness, they would converge and, together, they would tear the world apart to claim it. 

"Hey Chuckles." Varric's tone hadn't shifted much, it certainly wasn't anywhere near conversational, but that was hardly shocking. None of them thought of this as a conversation. "That stunt you pulled, making her sleep without dreaming," he continued and turned his gaze on the mage. Everything about Varric's stance and voice said that he didn't approve, as though the bruise marring Solas's face weren't enough of a reminder, but still he asked: "Can you keep that up?"

Solas had to brace himself before he answered. The conflicting nature of Varric's request wasn't worthy of note, let alone comment. None of them had ever seen Evelyn sleep so peacefully, nor so deeply, and it was a fact that weighed on all of them. She'd never looked so young or comfortable as she had bruised and sprawled across that damp stone floor, not when she rested in the sun, nor in any of their arms, and they all recognized it.

"No." Whatever weight that answer had, it was drawn away by a cold gust of wind as the air below them stirred and twisted against the jagged mountainside. The metallic tang of snow, of rain-slicked rock and exposed metal filled the air and was ripped away just as quickly as Varric's hope. "The method I must use is...it is beyond me, as I am. That I was able to succeed once is startling; I will not succeed again."

"Shit," Varric answered quietly and Solas inclined his head in silent agreement, a look of mixed frustration and regret dancing across his face. Cassandra did him the courtesy of not seeing, not commenting on his weakness, and looked instead at Varric.

"You coaxed her to sleep, Varric. Was it so different this time?" Cassandra was curious, but her expression was flat. She was investigating, seeking alternatives, options, and Varric's expression tensed as he tried to help her.

"I don't know," Varric answered, rolled his shoulders and scraped a hand across his chin as he thought it over. He'd been half asleep himself, had woken in patches as he always did when he slept next to others, but he hadn't been paying close attention at the time, he hadn't been looking for anything specific. His memory was hazy and clawing through it for details he'd cast off in the moment was like picking through old notes and drafts for a specific turn of phrase. "No, not at first--I mean, her arm was trembling, but it stopped eventually." Varric paused and let out a heavy sigh as his thoughts derailed. " _Maker,_ I always thought she was just cold."

Cassandra's brow dipped as she stared at him and her expression of vague confusion drew both Solas and Varric from their regrets. Jealousy had never held any place in their arrangements. Each of them cared for the others and each were aware of the others' regard, even if it went unspoken. In a thousand quiet, tiny ways they had grown dear to one another; resentment and envy were laughable, they were too interwoven to give ground to anything so petty. Practicality, however, forced some strange notes of privacy when they traveled. The tents were not large enough for four and none of them would see one set aside and alone. Simple courtesy had seen to it that no two of them had ever spent the night with the Inquisitor together. The realization, that so simple a thing had never occurred, was a strange one.

"I have never felt her tremble against me," Cassandra admitted, almost baffled by the idea of it. Varric's expression transformed instantly to some shade of surprise and Solas's was unreadable. The mage's brow dipped as his thoughts and eyes danced across Cassandra's face. The warrior felt uneasy as the silence stretched on and shifted, her posture becoming defensive on reflex. There was nothing to defend against, though, and she was left at a loss.

"How do you sleep when you are with her?" Solas asked suddenly, his tone almost clinical, and Cassandra was thankful for his bluntness. Despite the personal nature of the question, the privacy inherent to it, Cassandra didn't hesitate to answer him. She had not thought it was a secret, nor that the Inquisitor would treat them differently. The idea that they experienced her differently, that she might react strangely to any one of them alone, was utterly foreign. 

"She wraps her arms around me and curls into my side. Often she rests her head on my shoulder or my chest." Cassandra's description was not poetic, she failed to capture the nuances of their sleeping arrangement entirely. She made no mention of the way Evelyn relaxed as her arms came around her, or how she would sigh and drift to sleep mid-conversation, should they have one. In her experience, the Inquisitor was quick to slumber and preferred to be tangled against another, she felt no need to mention anything beyond positioning because she couldn't fathom any other arrangement. Despite the bare-bones nature of her description, Solas seemed shocked by her words. His attention, suddenly less detached and formal, flickered between Cassandra and Varric as he sought some confirmation. Unlike Solas, Cassandra's words hadn't unnerved Varric at all. 

"And she has never trembled? Shaken so hard she woke herself? Not even after starting awake suddenly?" Solas asked quickly, almost quietly, and Cassandra paled.

"What? No!" Cassandra nearly recoiled. She was aghast and the severity of her expression mystified the other two. "She has never!"

"Seriously?" Varric asked so quickly he nearly interrupted her. Cassandra turned her wide-eyed look of horror on him, and he simply stared back. "Not once?"

"No!" Cassandra was firm and absolute. Once the thought had managed to penetrate her surprise, a weight settled in the Seeker's stomach. Her expression fell, earnest and concerned, and her next questions held a distinct undercurrent of panic, as though she were hearing the symptoms of a disease for the first time. "She is this way with you? With both of you?" Both Solas and Varric inclined their heads in response and all three of them were struck dumb, at an utter loss for words. It was Cassandra who broke this silence. " _Why?_ "

"I--do not know," Solas admitted gradually. His eyes focused somewhere in the middle ground, locked on the air between them, and his thoughts wandered. If it weren't for Varric snapping his fingers in front of his face, the elf might've lingered in silent thought for any amount of time.

"Come on, Chuckles, even I can take a stab at that one," Varric scolded dryly. It was clear to him that something about this conversation, some aspect of it, was something Solas took personally. The elf was not, generally speaking, fond of discussing things he took personally and, if left to his own devices, would allow even minor slights to drive him to distraction. "Have you _met_ the Seeker? If she's trapped in nightmares all the time, I can't imagine there's anybody whose arms would feel safer than Cassandra's."

Cassandra was at a loss. Varric complimented her often, but the sincerity of those statements varied with his mood. In this instance, he spoke with the vehemence, the assurance that his words were simple _fact._ The statement didn't require thanks, merely acceptance, and Cassandra frowned as she thought it over. The Seeker knew of the Inquisitor's nightmares, if only through occasional passing comments as Evelyn rose, and from the disjointed rantings that Solas had babbled in the woods, but she had no details. She hadn't thought they were of consequence, not really, but both of the others took the matter so seriously that she was forced to reevaluate her own experiences.

"Are they so terrible that she wakes trembling? Terrified? That she is startled from sleep even in your arms?" Cassandra asked, gradually, wit wary uncertainty, and her gaze shifted from Varric to Solas. She held the mage's eye for several seconds and, finally, he answered.

"She rarely sleeps in my arms," Solas admitted quietly and his inflection, whatever it was, was lost to the whistling wind below them. The silence that followed was tense and sympathetic. Varric moved to speak but Solas cut him off before he could. "She is always mindful of my space, careful not to disturb me unless..." He paused and his eyes lighted on the middle-ground, again, as he searched his memory. "Unless I specifically request otherwise." His vision focused again but his gaze listed downward rather than lighting on either Varric or Cassandra. "On the occasions she woke, either shaking or startled, she would apologize for waking me and rise for the day."

"Oh, Chuckles," Varric uttered, softly and sadly. The dwarf reached out but he debated actually setting a hand on the mage's arm. His hesitance seemed to gall him, though, and he squeezed Solas's arm with an odd sort of determination. Solas glanced askance at him and Varric shot him a lopsided smile before he squeezed the mage's arm again and let his hand fall away. Solas's admission was very personal, as was his upset, and Varric saw no need to draw out either his emotion or silent self-flagellation. He shifted the topic back without thought. "I don't know how bad they are. Never had a nightmare so I don't really have a scale to measure them on, but the way she said it, it sounded like she just has the one every night."

"What?" Solas asked, sharply and suddenly, his sombre mood replaced instantly by surprise. Varric looked at him curiously, but continued as though he'd not spoken.

"She said it hurt, that the anchor tore her in two, but that's all I know."

"Solas?" Cassandra prompted once Varric had finished. The information Varric gave was disturbing, to dream of being torn apart, to suffer the same nightmare, the same pain every night was terrible, but that alone didn't warrant the look of horror on Solas's face. The way he'd rambled at her in the woods, in broken common and elvish, had been exceptional, but so had the events that led up to it. If the trauma that reduced him to babbling and pacing in the dark was so common, so regular that Evelyn experienced it nightly--

"I--" Solas hesitated. He clearly wanted to speak, to launch into description, into detail, but he swallowed thickly and resisted the urge. "I should not speak of it, it is not my place to say." He drew a deep breath and schooled his expression; he succeeded in that endeavor, but only just. "Varric's account is correct. The anchor ripped her in two...quite vividly."

Those two words were more than enough to put both Cassandra and Varric on alert. Solas would not describe Evelyn's dream, he had refused before and would continue to do so, but those two words spoke volumes more than the mild description the Inquisitor had provided. Solas spoke about dreams often and at great length; it barely took more than a vague question to inspire a long, winding anecdote about the Fade. In all their travels, however, neither the Seeker nor the rogue had ever heard him describe any scene, however graphic, any battle field, plague, betrayal, or death as _"vivid"_.

"If she suffers it nightly..." Solas debated briefly and his gaze drifted into the space between the other two. "It is a wonder that she sleeps at all." The elf swallowed and looked at Cassandra, then Varric, mild guilt already creeping into his face as he said more than he should. "I do not think I would tolerate it, were I in her place."

"Shit," Varric swore reflexively and Cassandra's look of worry and horror were replaced by a grim sort of determination.

"This cannot continue," she said and drew her arms to fold them across her chest. "If being near me aids her then--then I must simply remain with her when she sleeps." Cassandra's announcement was edged in frustration but, even as she said it, she realized the claim she was making. There was no preference in their relationship; just as she enjoyed sleeping alongside Evelyn, she enjoyed her time with Varric and Solas. As they enjoyed each other, so too did they enjoy Evelyn and Cassandra. To simply lay claim to an arrangement, even for so simple and dire a reason, was deeply uncomfortable. It was so uncomfortable that her resolve wavered, had Varric not spoken up she might've even rescinded her solution.

"That--yeah," Varric agreed and inclined his head, slowly at first but then with more fervor. "That's a solid plan, Seeker." The others stared at him, Cassandra uneasily and Solas with a note of distant hurt in his face, and the dwarf hurriedly explained. That he bumped Solas with his arm as he spoke to him was no accident and, despite the casual nature of it, the elf seemed to calm with the touch.

"Not just the Seeker, you too Chuckles," Varric said. "Nobody knows dreams and Fade shit like you do. That bed up there is enough space for the lot of you."

"And what of you?" Cassandra asked, her tone more gentle than she intended.

"There's a couch, isn't there?" Varric asked and then let out a huff of a breath. "I can't just go fall into my bed and sleep knowing how bad this all is. If this is how it's going to be, might as well go all in."

"And if Evelyn refuses our company?" Solas asked somberly but, surprisingly, it was Cassandra who replied, after a fashion. Without preamble, the Seeker let out a short laugh, a noise that was more a snort than anything else, and unfolded her arms to gesture at Varric. She motioned at the whole of him and leveled a dry look at Solas, one that was not wholly unkind given how unbalanced the elf seemed. Solas feared rejection, feared that he had been rejected already, and it was written on his face despite how he tried to school his expression. Cassandra was less worried and, in an attempt to comfort him she fell into an old habit: harassing Varric.

"As if anyone could refuse Varric for long. I am certain he could charm his way out of, or into, any place or problem he chooses. I have _seen_ him manage it."

"Why Seeker that was almost sweet of you." Varric replied, lightly, and some of his normal, casual charm seemed to settle into place. They had their tasks and while they were daunting, each and every one, they no longer wandered through the dark, uncertain of what to do. They were together in this, as everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very worried about this chapter when I began it back (oh geez two years ago) because it shifts the perspective for this conversation, but rereading it, it doesn't seem as jarring as I thought. Hopefully with this conversation done I can progress the story as I had planned to. Obviously this is not Trespasser compliant but, hilariously, the original outline I had for this is not terribly un-compliant either. The next chapter will be back to Evelyn's perspective.


End file.
